


Tarmac

by whatdoyoumeanionlygetoneotp



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: (thats both of them), Angst, Domestic, Eventual Johnlock, Eventual Relationships, F/M, First Dates, First Time, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Happy Ending, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Parentlock, Pining, Post-Episode: s03e03 His Last Vow, Post-Season/Series 03 Fix-It, References to Torture, References to trf so suicide but only what we've seen in the show, Resolved Sexual Tension, Scars, Slow Build, The Tarmac Scene, a lot of it, and again its just what was in teh, basically this is going to end up johnlock/parentlock but it wont start that way, bed sharing, but barely, enclosed spaces, gratuitous sip references, happy ending i swear, im not kidding, sherlock is microscopic tbh, technically
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-21
Updated: 2016-03-10
Packaged: 2018-04-27 11:25:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 54,858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5046670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whatdoyoumeanionlygetoneotp/pseuds/whatdoyoumeanionlygetoneotp
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>That's the thing about secrets, they tend to weigh an awful lot. Little secrets and little lies are nothing we can't carry, a few extra quid in your pocket. But big secrets, real secrets, the things that prey on you – those turn you into Atlas. He feels those three little words like bile at the back of his throat, corrosive. </em><br/> <br/><em>He doesn't say them.</em></p><p> </p><p>A fix-it starting from the end of hlv and ending up with a johnlock/parentlock situation. A whole lot of angst and pining in between.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Dangerous Disadvantage

Tarmac: short for tarmacadam or tar-penetration macadam; road surfacing material; patented by Edgar Purnell Hooley 1901. Sherlock studies it carefully, staring intently, not raising his head. Chemical composition: saturated hydrocarbons, naphthene aromatics, polar aromatics, asphaltenes. Also used to describe other materials, including tar-grouted macadam, bituminous surface treatments and modern asphalt concrete. Often incorrectly used to describe airport aprons and runways.

Runways, are they called runways because of runaways? He almost scoffs at his own usually logical brain for asking such a childish question. But then again he feels like a child, banished upstairs by his brother to sulk alone after some experiment or good deed gone wrong. But Children don't try to take down criminals on their own (he learned that the hard way) and children don't murder people. Children may believe it, but they aren't dragon slayers.

The day is clear, ish, and the breeze light. Still, he's glad of gloves because they hide tremors, and glad of the scarf that John replaced for him because it hides laboured gulps and swallows. He imagines he'll need them both. This won't be easy.

 

He goes to Mary first and quickly, because he can't have her interrupt. She opens her arms and he feels like a child again, forced to hug a relative he has no affection for. He hates that she's gone back to normal, is pretending again. She's like a pendulum, swinging to extremes. He supposes that makes them similar in some way, maybe that makes her perfect.

'Look after him,' he says, and really, really means it. He makes it sound sweet but knows she'll see through the words and know they're laced with as much poisonous threat as he can hide. The threat says "look after him or else", strong but empty. Still, he's proven himself to be fairly indestructible hasn't he? She'll listen. Surely she will.

Mary smiles like the face of angelic norm. 'Don't worry, I'll keep him in trouble.'

His answering grin is as fake as hers. 'That's my girl.' They're a club again, like they were before. The Official John Watson Protection Squad. Two sides with a same common vision but their methods juxtaposed. Bolshevik and Menshevik, with her as the majority.

She leaves then, blissfully, fades back a few steps. But a few steps aren't far enough and never will be. Time for a final appeal.

 

The only thing he let himself rehearse, purely for self-preservation, is the request for privacy. As he says it he's aware it sounds contrived and that he's effectively put himself in the driving seat and, considering the most powerful engine he's ever steered was a commandeered motorbike, that really doesn't seem to be the safest position for him. Mycroft raises a condescending eyebrow and nods at his men (who are "purely there for supervision"). The look he gives is all knowing, all seeing, and his stride renders his brother a castaway. _You're really getting involved again? Well, if you mess this up you're on your own._

And then they're alone. Hands fidgeting, eyes flicking, counting pebbles on the surface at their feet. They haven't been this alone or this exposed together for an age. Most likely since that awful day he made a spectacle and a mess leaping off a rooftop, but since the business with the underground they haven't mentioned that. Sherlock hopes they never will again, he can't pull an awful trick like that train carriage every time he wants to get something out.

They're not speaking.

Silence, that's another thing you rarely plan for. People make plans for what they'll say, how they're react, they never allow time for pauses, breathes, silence. Only composers will plan for silence, write in rests. They'll tell you silence is as important as the music, that a lack of a note speaks louder than the note itself. Sherlock knows this of course – he's a composer himself. But there are no rests in his waltz for John (and Mary), and there were scarcely even breathing or bowing marks in most of their excursions. He used to complain at every minor pause, become irritable while John caught up on sleep, but there's a difference between a pause and a silence like this one. A pause will give a you a chance to get your bearings, a silence worms its way into you. It fills pores, it fills air space. Air space is what makes you strong and holds you up, because it allows for impact. Silence takes that away, any impact is now doubled. Silence tears you down.

'So,' John says eventually, 'here we are.'

Sherlock decides then for certain that any conversation that starts with "so" is bound to be bad one, guaranteed to be stunted and laboured and awkward as anything. Especially when their eyes don't even appear to have the ability to meet. That seems to be their recent trend, doesn't it? Looking the other way, looking at the ground. He hates it. It isn't fair, that a fall and a marriage can tarnish something beyond cleansing. It kills him all over again that his last conversation with his first and sworn last friend is headed this way. Sherlock decides then that he's going to change that. He's come to accept that feelings are important and can't always be ignored, but perhaps a more startling human discovery is that they often can't just be spilled any which way. Sometimes honestly needs a warm up. So, with this logic, 'William Sherlock Scott Holmes,' is his answer that doesn't really answer (is there an answer to "here we are"?). The first secret struck off the list, his awful full title that only his parents, brother and the nosiest school "friends" know. It seems a reasonable confession though, not unnatural. Who else would he share it with? Who better to tell than his best friend who kept "Hamish" secret for years.

He's earned a confused look. 'Sorry?'

'That's the whole of it,' he says by way of explanation, allowing himself this reply to take in that bemused expression he knows and loves so well. 'If you were looking for baby names.'

That gets him a smile. Good. A reference to a time before it all went to hell wins him one of those special breathy chuckles he's come to prize, even covet. Good. He smiles too, all pursed lips and dimples so none of his own baritone can cover John's gentle laughter. He might not hear that again.

'No,' John says, finally looking right back at him, 'we've had a scan. We're pretty sure it's a girl.'

Sherlock feels his eyebrows raising of their own accord as the soft 'Oh' escapes his mouth. A girl. they're having a girl. It's so real suddenly, a real new human being brought into the world he could (will) soon be leaving. A baby girl carrying the genetic legacy of his wonderful flatmate and friend mixed with the woman who caused what must have been at least his seventh near death experience. He thinks about everything he knows about pregnancy, labour and children, about growing foetuses and growing up. He imagines the damaged happy couple with their midwives and nurses, smiling at ultrasounds, and aches. Then he imagines the child, a new born baby girl with John's eyes and hair screaming into the night and losing him sleep, falling and chewing and crawling and crying, cramming picture books into a ladybird bag, begging to stay up late, tapping away on her phone, perhaps even sticking a plaster over a younger sibling's knee, and aches again, and smiles. 'Okay,' he says.

Wrong thing to say, evidently, because they're back to square one. God it's like small talk, except it's worse than small talk because he can't lie. John is the one person he really hates to lie to. He does it as little as humanly possible. Honestly. They look anywhere except each other, the sky, the plane, the car, the Tarmac. He's chosen to stick with his own shoes, examining a scuff on the toe, while John keeps turning over his shoulder, looking like he's either desperate to leave or terrified of being interrupted – both of which make sense. With nothing to say and no courage to say it, neither of them want to break their wall of quiet. But, as again seems to be the norm in these situations, John takes it upon himself. 'Yeah,' he goes with, taking a final overview of the airfield. He clears his throat, 'actually, I can't think of a single thing to say.'

'No,' Sherlock agrees, head still bowed, 'neither can I.'

Tension and agony and annoyance are all tangible and Sherlock can pretty much taste all of them in the crisp early-January air. They taste like copper and tar. Then a single footstep and his eyes flick back upwards like there's an invisible hand under his chin.

'The game is over.'

'The game is never over, John,' he snaps back, his head up, his eyes now boring where he previously refused to look. He instantly feels guilty though; perhaps John doesn't understand the connotations of "over". When he continues his voice is softer. 'There may be some new players now. That's okay.' The light breeze plays around the hem of his coat; 'The East Wind takes us all in the end,' he murmurs, mostly to himself.

'What's that?' Comes John's voice with an upwards inflection. Always asking: always curious, always caring. Always just needing to check.

Sherlock elaborates: 'It’s a story, my brother told me when we were kids.' Told, more like lectured. Mycroft had been so pleased with himself for thinking up such an elaborate, unique, moral story that he had drummed it into his younger brother at every opportunity. Mycroft always liked teaching, he always had to be better, take the high ground. Even now the stupid story makes the bitterness still residing in Sherlock surge. He remembers especially the first time he'd been threatened with this supernatural natural force: he'd smashed a vase after miscalculating a deduction slightly and having to weave out of the path of an angry moustached man who was writing a paper with their mother and apparently didn't need to be told that his son was an alcoholic. Mycroft took it upon himself to play the parent, and instead of the usual empty threats had opted for a loaded story that would keep any seven year old up at night pondering and shivering. Sherlock repeats it now, knowing full well it shouldn't still affect him. 'The East Wind – this terrifying force that lays waste to all in its path. It seeks out the unworthy, plucks them from the earth.' he pauses, 'that was generally me.'

John raises his eyebrows as if in surprise, but it seems half-hearted. He's met Mycroft after all. 'Nice.'

Sherlock nods. 'He was a rubbish big brother.'

He gets another laugh and savours it. The two of them against his brother, against the world. But the moment is brief, because they both know they don't have infinite time.

 

He can't quite believe he's got this far into an albeit stunted conversation without the question coming up, the first time (and the only, if he's lucky) he'll have to lie. Now, faced with another silence, John asks it. 'So what about you, then? Where are you actually going now?' He sounds casual, but the concern is written all over him and Sherlock can't quite look him in the eye.

'Oh, some undercover work in Eastern Europe.' he answers, trying to sound nonchalant and bored. That part is true at least.

'For how long?'

'Six months, my brother estimates.' pause. 'He's never wrong.' _Well, that isn't really a lie._

But of course John sees through it. 'And then what?'

 _And then most likely I'll be in another cell or shaking Moriarty's hand in hell_ is what the answer should be. Death is near inevitable, and really Sherlock shouldn't be so utterly terrified at the prospect, because he accepted it long ago. It's been years since he made the choice to shift around all his priorities so John was ahead of him. But he doesn't want to die, he isn't like Moriarty at all at the heart of it. The prospect of death makes him want to curl up and hide, or scream, or run, or refuse to move; he hasn't quite decided yet. The fear is physical and beyond his control, he hates that. He doesn't say any of this, though, he says 'Who knows,' with his gaze over John's shoulder.

That part is a lie and John knows it as well as he does. They're both quiet yet again, daring each other to voice the inevitability of this being their last chance.

 

Last chances. They're not exactly common, not ones where you recognise it for what it is. In the average lifetime they'll be a few times when you'll say goodbye to someone, promise to keep in touch, say you'll talk again and yet you never do; they'll be a few where you watch someone or something dear to you go and you won't know it's the last time – those tend to end in disaster. But most unlikely is a forced parting, where you know it's the last chance, those are the rare ones. _Last chance, last chance, last chance_ circling through his head, a melancholy rhythm to which he twists his fingers and chews his lip. His eyes are back to raking the Tarmac as the familiar name in his mouth rolls out before he can think of anything else and he can feel John's eyes back on him as he always can.

'There’s something... I should say; I – I’ve meant to say always and then never have.' And now he's started, and he's talking and despite the pauses it's too late to stop himself. 'Since it’s unlikely we’ll ever meet again, I might as well say it now…'

Oh God he's going to say it, it's really happening, his biggest secret that has physically hurt him since that stupid swimming pool, it's finally coming out, quite literally. He's grappled with the true horror of the feelings for a while, and while still not desirable, the fact that they exist isn't news to him anymore. Spoiler alert: he isn't a robot. He's come to accept them, but that doesn’t mean he has to like them, or to let on. He hasn't let on in the slightest, he hopes. He's very much been acting up till now, up till this very moment when it looks like the planets are swapping orbits.

He feels those three little words like bile in the back of his throat, corrosive. His whole being is heavy.

That's the thing about secrets, they tend to weigh an awful lot. Little secrets and little lies are nothing we can't carry, a few extra quid in your pocket. But big secrets, real secrets, the things that prey on you – those turn you into Atlas. They push your shoulders, bow your head, compress your spine. They're omnipresent, constant. A burden that is just relentlessly... there. Just there, casually crushing you inch by inch. It would be enough to make anyone panic. And even when you're thinking about something else, a puzzle or a chase, and you can almost ignore it, there's the nagging, niggling nudges; a faint crunch, a rotation against your shoulder blades, your sweating fingers slip just so against it. And it starts to slip and slide slowly like a glacier, like a monstrosity, a sheer sheet of ice and worry down your spine. Sherlock feels it digging, dragging at the base of his neck, the pressure moving downwards towards the joint. _Could be dangerous._

He grabs at it, takes a breath, and catches it. Looking up into those all too familiar eyes that crave any honesty, the first thing in his head apart from the racing, crisscrossing confessions tumbles out of his mouth as if a dam has burst. 'Sherlock is actually a girl's name,' he says. He's lucky that it doesn't sound garbled.

John laughs, and his laugh is beautiful and easy and he throws his head back and the shifting tectonics crunching on Sherlock's spine are worth it to hear this sound one more time. 'It's not,' John tells him.

'Worth a try,' he shrugs, and pulls a smile that he hopes looks happy, because looking sad means people asking if you're sad, and people asking means they've noticed, an if people have noticed it must be true. It's not true if it's a secret. Another secret, perched on top of his tower.

'We're not naming our daughter after you.'

His just concealed sharp intake of breath means nothing. He doesn't even allow the thought his name attached to John's to enter his head. At all. 'I think it could work.'

It's the best moment so far because they're both smiling and enjoying it, but it's the worst because missed opportunities are always awful and because he can practically hear Mycroft clicking his tongue behind them. The plane won't wait forever. Time to move on.

 

Except that Sherlock's not sure how to do it. What's not enough, what's too much. Everything feels contrived or forced, he wishes it wouldn't. He's nothing if not an analyst however, and he tries to read the situation. As usual, everything and nothing. John is always a wealth of data, but not always easy to discern. His fingers are an easy tell though – they flex and curl inwards under stress, and the moment catches Sherlock's eye and suddenly makes the decision easy.

Contact is what he wants. Any contact would be good, but what he really craves is to stop those fingers worrying and to hold them. Just once.

He pulls his glove off – both their pulses will be exposed then, and that's only fair – and offers his hand. A shake, that's not too much is it? too formal? 'To the very best of times, John,' he says. Definitely too formal, but it's honest at least.

Then John takes his proffered hand and he doesn't regret anything anymore. Skin on skin, pulse on pulse, connectivity – it feels good. Christ, he's in deep. No, don't think about it, this is a good ending. Don't go out screaming and kicking, go out with a handshake. Dignified, proper and true. Has it gone on too long? not long enough? Sherlock thinks he wouldn't mind their hands being linked forever, even like this – formal and platonic. He wants to keep holding and to keep looking at this man who's changed so much, after all it's his last chance, and those are hard to come by. But the plane won't wait forever.

A single wrist movement finishes the shake, and as their conjoined hands lower Sherlock allows himself one moment more to drag his eyes over the face in front of him. Every line of stress, every curve of worry, the hints of a forced smile under the parade rest. All of it, wrinkles and lashes and crinkles and pores. Everything.

And then he lets go and turns.

 

Turns away forever, shoves his hand back in his glove and storms up the steps without glancing back. It hurts but he doesn't let himself. His eyes sting and as the door closes and the pilot disappears into the cockpit he finally lets them spill, albeit only a little, and silently. _This is what you wanted, remember? this is what you planned. He can be happy now, he can be safe now. That's what you wanted._

_God it's awful._


	2. The Grit on the Lens

The phone rings, insistent and intrusive, and the steward answers it. He offers it to Sherlock without a hint of remorse. 'It's your brother.' And just like that the quiet depression and hurt is shattered and it's back to the real world. The detective takes it with a glare; this was his moment of silence. Everyone deserves at least that surely? Even him. The call ID is indeed Mycroft's number – his stomach drops again but he answers, loathing every part of the man without adulteration. As Mycroft talks and he replies as snarkily as is possible with bloodshot eyes and trembling lips, and he starts to realise what is really being said, his whole being changes, hums like a live wire. Every cell in his body is back online, back from the dead. The jet wobbles and the wings dip. He's going back, they're going to land, he's not leaving. His fingers are bone white against the armrests, skeletal. He's not going to die. _I am not going to die._ Sherlock doesn't believe in any deity and there have been very few times in his life that he has engaged in prayer of any kind; this is one of them, he's swelling up with praises.

_Thank you thank you thank you._

When he hears 'Moriarty' that changes. The hum goes to static. It can't be true, there's no way it can be true. His own eyes and countless nightmares forbid it. There was blood and a shot and dead, staring eyes. It can't be true. So of course he starts thinking and his mind starts whirring, cogs starting to clunk as usual, ignoring the grit of nervous energy. But he answers concisely and hangs up as the wheels of the plane touch down. Moriarty made him wait, so he can return the favour. The problem can always wait when there are more important people to think of. More important things to say.

Sherlock's knees are shaking as he disembarks, with relief, with terror, with happiness and confusion. His palm is sweaty on the cold metal of the hand rail; he's not sure he wants to let on, it'll make it harder not to spill his secrets like oil the second time around. He considers acting, but he's not that good, so just smiles weakly at the couple standing together. Except they aren't standing together long, because John drops Mary's hand like a suitcase after a long journey and actually runs to meet him. He slows at the bottom of the steps, comes to a too close halt, but doesn't touch. He looks like he wants too. He's breathing far too hard after running fifteen meters.

'Never do that again, you dick,' John tells his friend, and though it's his Captain's voice he's smiling with relief.

It's everything about him encapsulated, and Sherlock's overwhelmed by how glad he is to be back on the ground and with this man again that the words start bubbling up under his skin for the second time in barely fifteen minutes. He was so close before, only needed a tipping point and this, this feeling of sinking into a familiar chair after a long day is the tipping point. This is it. It's quintessential John and he adores it without escape.

'I love you.' he says.

In his head, whenever he'd said it, in the countless imaginings, something awful and dramatic had always happened. But there's nothing now. The world keeps turning under his feet, only now he can feel it. The tide moves in in one place and out in another, the sun shines, the moon reflects, things respire and breathe – in, out, in, out. The breeze tugs playfully at his scarf, nothing explodes nor implodes. Time passes, Mary looks at her watch. John stares. Stares and stares. Not wide eyed, open mouthed comedy staring, but blank faced empty staring. Sherlock had also thought that, for once, he'd lose his ability to think, that his mind would be blank, a white canvas or an empty room with nothing but those words and his heartbeat. In reality his brain is working like normal, and it hates the silence he's caused. The staring doesn't cease, so he says it again, as if to jog John's awareness. He sounds more confidant this time, it's less like a confession and – he admits – he likes the way it sounds.

'I love you.'

'I know.' No beat between their words this time; after what was most likely decades of silence John's answer flows seamlessly. Like they're acting and he'd just blanked on his line. But it's still all wrong. 'I know.' he says again, quieter, and pulls Sherlock into a hug. Oh this is wrong. Maybe not so awful anymore but still wrong. "I know" and hands on the small of his back were not what Sherlock expected. Then again he doesn't know what he expected. Then again it definitely wasn't the top of John's head fitting perfectly under his chin like a jigsaw puzzle. It isn't so bad, it really isn't. He lets himself sink into it, wraps his own arms around John's shoulders. Oh. Contact. This, this is what he wanted and he's got it now. Oh. His mind really is blank now. He's said his bit and John's said "I know" – where does the conversation go from here?

Mary and his brother are trying not to look, Mycroft with slightly more success. Mary's staring so intently you'd think the two men were a car crash she couldn't tear her eyes from. Her expression makes him nervous, she looks like a predator, and he looks away, looks downwards. Unfortunately John picks this moment to look upwards, and they both jump from the static of eye contact. They pull apart, and it's back to awful.

'Sorry,' John says, rubbing the back of his neck, 'I kind of Han Solo'd you there.' Beat. 'But I know.'

Sherlock doesn't understand the reference – Bond he sat through, but not even John could get him to watch a film about fighting in space with multi-coloured lasers ('Sherlock it's got the solar system in it you know, you might learn something...') – but he doesn't need to. All he cares about is the last two words. Because they make him cold and warm at the same time and that's only possible if you have a fever and he definitely doesn't.

'You know?' He asks, his brow furrowing, he lungs fast becoming his body's own stress ball.

John frowns back at him, 'course I know.' Then he checks over his shoulder, and the rest of the airfield, and the Tarmac again, before asking, with the same tone he used way back when he took that fateful first shot way back when: 'You were going to get on that plane and not say it... Weren't you?'

Sherlock doesn't answer. The weight on his back is pressing again, starting to ease onto his shoulder blades. This isn't right, he said the secret didn't he? He confessed. It's not supposed to be heavy, it's not supposed to hurt anymore. He drops his gaze under the load.

John continues, sounding both more annoyed and more amused. 'You were going to get on that plane and fly off to God knows where and not say it.' Nothing. 'Weren't you?'

Accusatory or playfully mocking? The question weighs as much as most secrets. Not all, but most. Sherlock nods. A pause, that lasts so long he hears the ticking of his watch in the silence, each strike of the second hand another mass added to his load. One, two, three, four. Oh, not that long after all. Did Atlas get bored, Sherlock wonders. Four seconds, then John sighs. Not the exasperation or irritation that Sherlock is so used to, but a real long, deep, audible breath that demonstrates pain or sadness or a loss of tension.

'You've got to stop this,' John tells him, and despite the imperatives his voice is lacking entirely in strength. It doesn't crack but it wavers, a tight rope walker on a fine line, any side step, trip, stumble means a humiliating plummet at best.

Sherlock looks up in confusion and concern. Not in that order. 'Stop what?'

'Dumping stuff on me and leaving,' John growls, but he can't sustain it and just shakes his head with an exasperated breathy laugh. He pauses before going on, the wait forcing Sherlock to look him in the eye. 'Mainly the leaving,' he says, now suddenly serious. 'Stop leaving.'

'Sorry.'

The serious expression is lost as quickly as it was acquired, broken with the ghost of a smirk. 'And stop apologizing.'

'Sorry.'

John laughs easily with another shake if his head, like old times. Should they be laughing really? _We can't giggle its a confession scene._ Eyes meet, then smiles wither and wilt, and their descent begins. John clears his throat and looks back over his shoulder – Mary and the rest are still watching. He coughs again. 'We should probably go back,' he mutters, 'explain...'

'Probably.' Sherlock's mumbled response must have sounded as dejected as an abandoned animal – those always seem to have sympathy – because it evidently tugs on something. He didn't mean it to, and as John cringes he instantly regrets it, regrets a lot of things. He tries offering a smile, and is at first relieved to receive one in return, then John says:

'I'll come back with you'

and his digestive system does a summersault. 'You...' he tries, 'You mean?' He's not sure what it means. His mouth tastes like metal again, like he's been chewing on pennies – which he hasn't since he was five – and his throat is heavy, as if he's swallowed them. The air in between them, dispersed and cleared since their contact is thickening with a crystal clear smog.

'I mean I'll come back with you.' John clarifies matter-of-factly, although the situation is no clearer.

Sherlock swallows, and catches sight of Mary checking her watch again. For the first time since landing he remembers why the blessed phone call came and everything goes taught with adrenaline. Arteries start to constrict. 'Moriarty,' he half whispers, 'he's out there..' But:

'No, John says, point blank. 'Not now.' ever the voice of reason. 'Not tonight,' _what's so special about tonight?_ 'I can't...' _Can’t what?_ _Why can't you?_ 'No. I'll come back with you.'

And it's the "I'll come back with you" that goes whizzing down the familiar neuron routes in the Sherlock's brain. Messages of relief like a bullet train that make his skull rattle. A few years ago, hours even, hearing those words would have sent all the potential energy in his body racing to become kinetic in his core and lower, his pulse would have skyrocketed, panic would be an adequate word if it were one he'd allow to be used. Now, he feels nothing but comfort and relief. Like sinking into a hot bath, most would say, like sinking into a good puzzle he would say. Or an armchair or – not that he'd ever admit – the sound of typing, or bad Telly commentary, even (perhaps) a Bond film and a cup of tea and a hole-ridden blanket. He smiles weakly, completely spent. Over in the distance Mary tosses up her hands and finally shuffles back into the car, straining with no assistance. John doesn't see, he's got his back to her. Instead he grins back at his friend, looking as exhausted, relieved and content as Sherlock feels, and slips his hand into the taller man's.

Sherlock's got his gloves back on this time but he still barely smothers a gasp. It must be wrong, their palms fit together awkwardly, out of touch, out of practice. Yet if he shifts a bit surely... Oh, better. It's magnetism and comfort. He imagines that the warmth of John's fingers seeps through the leather into his hand and arm and torso and fuels the growing hearth fire in his stomach. He stares and stares at their conjoined hands, analysing the fit a little, but mainly just staring, taking it in. He's seen those hands do a lot of thing; make tea, type slowly, shoot guns, punch police chiefs, save lives, file bills. Never seen them like this. Tenderness without professionalism. That's not something that often manifests physically, not for him. He wants to say something, anything, mainly because the warmth in his chest is spreading upwards and he needs a distraction before he starts blushing.

But it's okay, because he only has time to shove his other hand deep in his pocket to stop it twisting before John turns around. Turns around and leads him back to the other car. _I'll come back with you_


	3. Houston, We Have a Mistake

In the morning the sunlight is gentle: a soft, dewy glow that kindly pokes its head through the door and curtains and nudges Sherlock awake. It's late in the morning, that he can tell, and the bed is warm and smells of comfort. That's abnormal. He's pulled the covers up so far over his shoulder that his face is buried under them, his face turned into th pillow like a baby animal. Blissfully, disgustingly domestic.

Then, once the light has begun its prodding in earnest, he regains his usual thought patterns, realising first the true gravity of the situation and second that he's alone, that the heat trapped under the covers is all his. He feels abandoned and annoyed, then stupid because those are things he'd feel if he were some sort of jealous partner, or if it was an unusual event for him to wake up alone.

In his still dreary state he can't quite compute that last night really happened, that he really did fall asleep with another pair of eyes closed nearby, and that at points in the night their feet even touched. That it was warmer, safer… _better_.

 

_'Can I..?'_

_'Your room's still upstairs...'_

_'I know but, I think we both, um...'_

_'You can stay.'_

_'No, I mean I don't...'_

_'Please. Please stay.'_

  
  
He really said it, said "I love you", shed the weight. But there's still a dull heavy feeling in the pit of his stomach. He really said it, and "I know", a hand in his and a body in his bed (alive for once) are not the worst possible outcomes. Not the worst at all, but John isn't any closer to loving him and isn't still in bed. Sherlock groans and blinks his eyes open.

Then smiles, because there's a piece of paper with his name on it propped against the clock, right in his eye line. Again, domestic, something couples do, not friends. He knows the writing as well as he knows his own, but still feels a warm hum at seeing the way his name is spiked and scrawled on the page. Blearily, he scans it, and the contrast between the simple, more-than-platonic kindness and the true, gritty reality of the situation he so idiotically put himself in is once again shoved in his face. The hum fades.

 

_"Gone to hospital with Mary. Didn't want to wake you. Will text.  
— J"_

 

He snatches it up and only traces the final letter once before scrabbling on the bedside table for his phone. He shoots a message with fumbling fingers.

 

_"All alright?"_

 

The wait for the reply is agonising, and he's hauled himself out of bed, put on fresh clothes, and flicked on the kettle by the time it comes. He even puts two pieces of bread down in their ancient toaster, then remembers and takes one out again. His mobile buzzes angrily against his thigh and he whips it out, craving an answer but momentarily terrified. He doesn't know what he's more worried about – is Mary alright? is the baby alright? is John alright? is he happy? – or what he wants the answers to be. He waits for a second before looking, gives himself a beat of silence to breathe. Then he turns it over.

 

_"It's a girl :)"_

 

The answer hits him like a barrelling train and he stumbles on his way to the door, almost dropping his scarf as he attempts to tie it one handed, halfway down the stairs.

_It's a girl_

 

 

His shoes smack on the awful linoleum as he marches down the hall; you aren't allowed to run in hospitals unless you're in a film, or someone's dying. Sherlock hates hospitals. A lot. They smell clinical in the worst way possible and they're full of idiots and doctors who think because they have a PhD they're more intelligent than he is and hate being told they're wrong. That and the only reason he goes is for some sort of emergency, so the stark white walls and murmuring nurses (either chipmunks or demons in scrubs) don't exactly hold fond memories. This one is no different. That said, he's never been to the maternity ward before. So far the only difference is that he knows everything is fine, and that the sounds coming through the walls are higher pitched and everywhere. There is nothing to be worried about, at all, and yet his heart seems to have decided that two-way doors and pink flooring must equal stress and pain, and his heart is banging furiously on his ribcage.

He can't quite work out what he's feeling, and as he reaches the door the receptionist pointed him to he has to take a second. He wants to see the baby he's waited for, nine months same as everyone else, and he wants to see John again. But both of those things sound like climbing Everest. His stomach feels ever so slightly out of synch with the rest of his body, perhaps tuned a little too sharp. It rolls like the artificial waves in a children's pool, only enough for most people to bob joyously, but more than enough to throw some off and send them scuttling back to the changing rooms. He tugs absently on his collar, imagines turning the tuning pegs of his violin to bring the note back to concert pitch and calm the uneasy sea. 

He must have stood on the door step for eons, had fungus and ferns crawling all over his shoes, because as he raises a hand (that’s perfectly steady, thank you very much) to the handle, the door opens inwards and he's pulled into a one armed hug. John smells like saline solution and talcum powder and Mary's perfume, his hand on the back of Sherlock's neck is clammy and his cuffs are undone; he must have been here for hours. Still smiling though as he pulls away, despite the overwhelmingly purple tones under his eyes.

'Hi,' he grins, 'we wondered how long you were going to stand there.' When Sherlock frowns he indicates the window in confusion. The window. There's a window from the room into the corridor. _God what happened to observation?_  He shrugs when his friend's face is a blank canvas and goes back to smiling. He even presses his palm absently to the cuffs of Sherlock's coat. 'Come in,' he says, 'come and say hi.' His tone is as gentle and as happy as Sherlock can remember, without a trace of the panic he heard on when the first wave of parenthood broke over the middle of a dance floor. Sherlock, disgustingly predictable, thinks it's wonderful and makes a mental note to add this soft, joyful adoration to his list of sounds John Watson makes that melt him.

 

John goes round to the other side of the bed where he's already pulled up a chair and resumes it, leaving Sherlock's view clear. He sees Mary and forces a smile and a quiet 'hello'. She looks like hell, quite understandably. She's covered in blankets and a sweaty dressing gown, but has stuck her bare feet out from underneath. Her hair is scraped, raked back into a messy ponytail, thick with grease and sweat, and the exhaustion in her face drags her features down massively. But she's smiling too. Sherlock thinks this baby must be pretty special if people so tiered and stressed are smiling because of it. He cranes his neck as subtlety as possible, but all he can see is a huddle of towels

'Come to see the product of my labours?' Mary asks.

'If I can,' he replies cheerily, and, when she looks back to her daughter, wipes his palms on the back of his coat.

Her daughter. This baby, made of a string of bases, of otherwise meaningless letters that came from this woman. Sherlock wanders how much of the swaddled child is Mary Watson, how much is Mary Morstan, and how much is AGRA. He hopes it's as little as physically possible.

She offers him another smile and jerks her head in the direction of another chair in the corner, but her face falters as John says 'you can hold her.' Her frown is fleeting but noticeable, and both men swallow nervously, but John doesn't backtrack. 'If you want, I mean,' he adds lamely, and reaches over.

Mary is reluctant to let go: it's only a slight hesitation but obvious enough. Sherlock would ponder whether she distrusts him in particular or simply doesn't want to give up her child because of strong maternal instincts, and suspect the former, but he's too busy trying to conceal his nerves. It's awful and horribly pedestrian, he thinks, acting calm and decisive when your feelings are acting like a game of Whack-a-Mole. (He only played once as a child and wasn't very good. Such games are pointless, he told his mother.) He watches, paralyzed, as the blanket lump that's actually a human being moves into John's arms (lucky) and then towards his (probably a mistake).

'Do you want to hold her?' John checks anxiously. He sounds like he's looking for approval which seems utterly ridiculous.

Sherlock nods again in a spasm of courage and lets his arms be talked and moulded into the right positions – supporting the head, neck and spine – slightly regretting choosing to hold the child of a soldier/doctor and assassin/nurse as he feels the combined forces of their gazes boring into him.

 

The baby feels like an inanimate lump if he's honest, and she weighs more than he expected. He stares, no one speaks: it's a bit of an anti-climax.

 

Then she moves.

A twitch in her legs and a wriggle, a little squirm. Oh God he's going to drop her. Then she curls inwards against his chest, seeking a body. A living, breathing human being, with tiny fingers and toes, and legs like a roll of tires. A real, living little girl. A daughter. She shifts again, this new being, and reveals her blotchy, chubby face. Puffed puckered lips, swollen eyes and cheeks like a hamster's. The wrappings fall away from the back of her head, and Sherlock notes with a disproportionate amount of happiness that she already has a spattering of blonde hair.

She's far from beautiful, he wouldn't even go as far as cute, but she's here and she's healthy – isn't that all parents can hope for?

He wanders what her skin feels like.

 

Mary sighs into the silence. 'Nothing,' she announces, 'Course there's nothing. should have known.'

Sherlock looks up, adjusts his hand positioning, '"Nothing"?'

'You're not going his say anything, are you?' she looks exasperated and he frowns, suddenly hyper aware or every movement.

'What do you want me to say?' he asks defensively.

'Most people wander at the miracle of birth? Or how small she is?'

'Of course she's small,' Sherlock says, baffled and affronted, 'she's less than a day old.'

'Nine months and a day old,' Mary corrects tautly.

'You don't have to say anything,' John assures him, giving his wife a look.  
  
The discussion has apparently woken the nine-months-and-one-day old as well as barely smothered demons. She moves again – is she some sort of snake? – and Sherlock repositions his hand on the back of her head for the fifth time. He goes to pull her blankets back over, feelings Mary's scrutinizing gaze on him, but stops as the baby opens her stiff, swollen eyes.

 

And they're blue. Brilliant and bright. Deep and full of curiosity, innocence, danger. They're the night sky and the whole cosmos and the deepest depths, they're natural and captivating. Dark, but clearly coloured. Blue, with a slight rim of tawny round the pupil. He knows those ocean eyes well. He's been desperate to drown in them for years.

All thoughts of science vanish from his head, replaced by disturbing sentimentality and horrendous predictability as he says, with a sharp intake of breath: 'She's got your eyes.'

He doesn't look up, but hears the rustling of sheets and piqued interest. 'Mmm?' He's glad to recognise John's questioning inflection rather than Mary's – that might have been awkward.

'Her eyes,' he repeats. 'They're like yours.'

A shuffle, and a squeak of soles as John goes on tip toe to peer over Sherlock's shoulder. 'Yeah,' he shrugs, 'yeah, I guess she does.'

'She does,' Sherlock says again, quietly, almost to himself. His own eyes haven't moved, even with John so near to him. Impressive. So this child is something remarkable after all.

'Great,' Mary interjects, throwing up her hands so they hit the bed sheets with a muffled smack, 'I do all the work and she gets your eyes'

John turns back to her, smiling; dutiful and kind. 'It was worth it. She's beautiful.'

'She is.' Sherlock agrees, and despite his previous assertions, now he really believes it. He's still staring at those eyes when the door opens.

 

A nurse's voice, irritatingly chipper, calls 'all alright in room 302?'

'We're fine.' The new parents say together.

'Rachel settling in?'

 


	4. If You Were Looking For Baby Names

_Rachel._

Her name is _Rachel._

Now Sherlock does look up, tears his eyes from the deep blue orbs and wheels around. The sound of the nurse's voice is like the boom of a drum.

_Rachel_

A name scratched, incomplete, into a floorboard. A name on a certificate that was never signed. A name typed feverishly into the computer that ended up helping John save his life for the very first time. It means something, it means everything. A name that – coupled with a colour – represents a forming friendship and attraction. Rachel means "oh God yes", it means a crime scene where for the first time not everyone there thought he was insane, it means "fantastic", "brilliant", "amazing". Rachel means a dinner date and a chase that proves him right. It means "could be dangerous" and a drugs bust and already unbreakable loyalty. Rachel to them is two taxis, two windows and two kung pao chicken. It's the beginning.

The word is half formed on his lips before he catches John's eye. A minuscule shake of the head, a fraction of a frown is enough to stop the second syllable. Instead his mouth goes dry and he rasps the end of the name. _It took effort, it would've hurt._  
  
'Everything's okay,' John tells the cheery nurse, though his voice is tight too. When the door closes he flicks his eyes upwards to Sherlock's again, only for the briefest moment. But the split second message is both "don't" and "wait".

'I need a coffee,' he announces. 'Anything, Love?'

'I can't have caffeine,' Mary points out irritably.

'Sorry, water?'

'They gave me some.' She nods to a cup.

'Course,' John says, with a too clinical dopey grin. Then: 'Sherlock?'

The detective's answering 'Hm?' is shocked to be included.

'Coming?'

He nods, and fumbles in his haste and over caution as he returns the baby – _Rachel_ – to Mary's arms. By the time he's out of the door John's already five meters ahead of him down the claustrophobic corridor.

 

There's no speaking, they stride in silence all the way to the cafeteria, for once with Sherlock falling behind and almost trotting. The question is burning his tongue like a hot drink but the look said "wait", so he waits. In the cafeteria John fills three cups of water.

'Do you want coffee?' He asks, and his voice is painfully casual.

 

On the way back they stop. There's a bench in the corridor but they don't sit. Now the look says "I know what you're going to say; say it".

So Sherlock does, trying to be casual, failing. 'Rachel?'

John clears his throat and wets his lips as he always does when he's nervous and simply answers 'Yeah.'

The response is a statement – checking for confirmation. It's strained and fidgety, it's disbelieving but matter of fact. 'You named your daughter Rachel.'

'Yes.'

'Why?'

John shrugs and coughs some more, then one corner of his mouth pulls up and he replies: 'well, I said I wouldn't name her after you didn't I?'

But he has, Sherlock finally realises, that's the agonising beauty of it. "Rachel" means the same thing to both of them, and John has gone and attached all of that to his daughter, to someone who literally carries part of him. God, it's the cruellest most romantic thing. Like watching some suffocate in a bed of roses, like someone's carving their initials together into his skin. Surely it wasn't done like that on purpose? Because John didn't say it back... what he said was "I know", so...

'Listen,' John continues, pulling Sherlock back, his voice slow and tentative, like a kid who's about to give a really terrible excuse. 'Mary doesn't know, about...'

Oh God, he hadn't even thought about Mary's input into this ache of a decision. Of course she doesn't know, or she'd never have allowed it.  The man she loves and she won reference a time before, where he was loved by another? No, she'd never have agreed; she'd sooner have put a bullet in that other all over again.  

Sherlock nods along with John's trailing sentence, so the doctor knows he understands and to keep going, to say all of it. _Say it all, please._

'And...' John's voice almost has a stammer now, that's a rarity. 'And I don't think she would want to.'

'Why?' Sherlock asks even though they both know the answer. It's both an appropriately clever low blow, because he's perfectly aware he's pushing John into 'my wife's a lying assassin who shot my best friend' territory, and a self-indulgence, because he wants the proof that "Rachel" is special, that it means something.

'Well.. It's just, Rachel is hers. And I don't think, I mean she's not ours. And Rachel, as in pink Rachel, that's sort of, ours. I don't think she'd want...' John trails off again, stumbles to the end of his sort of sentence lamely and leaves it hanging and awkward, but inside Sherlock is bursting like a sunflower. "Rachel" is sort of theirs, and despite the fact that he knows the woman he loved a would hate it if she knew, John stuck that sort of theirs name on another human being. He feels like a teenager, hates his sudden urge to clutch a pillow close to his chest. He feels like blushing. _Sort of ours._

_Ours._

He doesn't express any of this however. He just nods, ever the understanding friend, chewing the inside of his cheek, and finishes what John started. '...Me involved.'  
  
'No, no,' John hurries to correct, of course, 'not that she doesn't want you involved, but, uh...' he squeezes the coffee cup too hard as he searches for words and Sherlock cringes at bringing out guilt. The rim of the cup looks close to bursting the lid off.

'I understand,' he says, to ease their misery.

'Right,' his friend smiles, relieved, 'Okay.'

They start walking again, glancing sideways every other stride, and only knowing the other's doing it because every now and again two objects acting at different frequencies will act at the same time. It's a mathematical certainty. Those times their glances really are just glances.

 

When they get back to the room John touches his arm again and little water slips over the side of the cup onto his hand. John doesn't notice. 'I think it's a great name,' he says with all the smile necessary in his Rachel-blue eyes.

 


	5. Do You Just Carry On Talking While I'm Away?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw - discussion of/references to drug use/addiction past and present.

The first week was far from easy, but relative to the weeks that follow it was heaven. After Rachel goes home from the hospital with her exhausted, smiling parents, the visits dwindle. Sherlock doesn't want to bother them, they'll obviously be busy. And obviously they are because for a whole week there isn't even a text. It's fine, he shrugs to himself, it's understandable, they're busy. They've got a real baby now.

So he ignores the pangs like cramps in his limbs and stomach each time he checks the time on his phone and sees an empty lock screen, or pours enough water for two cups into the kettle. He ignores the feeling of an angry fist grabbing and twisting and pulling at his insides, mashing everything up with broad fingers and scraping at the walls with talon-like nails. He takes far too many pain killers. At least it's only aspirin. It could be worse.

 

 

 

It doesn't help that London's criminals are apparently all busy too, busy doing anything except their damn jobs. Maybe they've all had babies too. Even Moriarty’s return turns out to be a hoax. Of course, that’s still something, as Mycroft reminds him over the phone – a crazy criminal who can hack into every screen in the UK. Could be interesting. But there are no leads this early on. Whoever is was, whatever they’re planning, they’re lying low at the moment. Honestly, despite the half-concerned, half-condescending tone his brother uses, Sherlock’s relieved. The idea of all his two years away being a waste of time, that the job might not be finished, that he might have gone through all that for nothing… It’s a bit not good.

He doesn't get a case for a month; he drives Mrs Hudson mad with all the noise.

But she forgives him, of course. At the end of week two she storms upstairs and catches him smoking in John's chair in just a sheet, and can't bear to see him "looking like the end is nigh". She makes him breakfast and he actually eats it.

 

 

 

At the end of week three he considers moving the chair again. He sits huddled up in it, hands clasped in front of his ankles, hugging his knees into his chest, and considers. He doesn't like looking at it, but the smell is comforting. Realistically, John's not going to need it. But he _might._

The clinging hope is the worst. Like he's the child and some awful adult who thinks they're funny is dangling something just out of reach. Because there's still a chance. He's aware he sounds like a drunk at a casino when he thinks it, a man with everything to lose on one last number, and it makes him bury his head in his knees in shame, but _there's still a chance._

 

He alternates between not washing at all and spending days in the shower. Some days he'll eat nothing, others he'll eat anything and everything his not-housekeeper has stocked the fridge with. It's like some awful teen comedy, he thinks, but with cold risotto instead of ice cream.

 

 

 

When stars run out of hydrogen they're essentially fucked. Their descent begins right there and then, but it happens slowly. Soon, soon being in cosmic terms, they'll either be shooting across the cosmos in a million bits of romanticized stardust, or turning into a black hole, folding in on themselves. They might be able to hold on for a while, scramble some helium together for a few million years, but the end is inescapable. Right now Sherlock's a super-giant, fusing neon, sodium and magnesium, but more of this sitting, waiting, wasting around and he'll be on to the heavier elements, start to collapse inwards, unable to support himself. It's basic cosmology, he thinks bitterly. Bet John doesn't know that.

 

 

 

By week four he's considering doing more than smoking. His fingers shake for want, vibrate and slip against the strings of his violin. If he can't even play anymore what's the point. He goes as far as to retrieve the box, the box that John never knew about. It feels like a trembling animal, but that's probably his own shaking fingers making the wood vibrate. He can already feel the needle, cold and resilient, driving away boredom and loss.

In the end he put it back untouched, but the stress and shame involved meant he slept for ten hours and woke up with a splitting headache and a damp, salty patch on his pillow that he'd never admit to.

 

 

 

He doesn't move the chair.

 

 

 

Week five is different. Lestrade calls, and Sherlock's climbing the walls so he takes the case without any persuading. Being out of the flat and working feels better, but his hope that being at a crime scene would help him clear his head proves laughable. John's voice takes up any and all the empty space, spilling endearments and profanities. It's distracting. When Greg asks 'so how're John and Mary? How's...' And Sherlock finds saying "Rachel" a lot more difficult than it should be, he leaves in a whirl of coat. _Forgot to put your collar up_ says the familiar voice in his head.

But the fifth week doesn't follow exactly the same trend of horrific moping and mortifying pining, because the fifth week is the week John texts.

_"Hey, sorry things are a bit hectic. How are you? Got anything interesting on?"_

Every letter is another blow, a toddler relentlessly whacking on the top of a would-be-sandcastle, pushing the bucket deeper into the ground, heaping on more anxiety. But it feels a hundred times better.

Sherlock lies around all day trying to think how to respond, feeling more and more like a stupid teenager. He settles on " _no. You?"_ just before midnight, and congratulates himself with a nicotine fix, out of the open window into the darkness like the deep hero of some artistic indie film.

 

 

The texting lasts five days. Five great, get-up-in-the-morning-go-to-bed-at-night days. Healthy days. He wanders round the city with less of a scowl, going frantically to his pocket with every sound. Day six is not such a good day, but somehow it's the best.

They're into February and its raining. Horrible, drizzly, dirty, London rain. It's dark, dank, cold and clammy, and it's only six o'clock. Puddles and fog lights illuminate the pavements and everything is covered in a thin film of water. Everyone hates February. Still, Sherlock is headed out, because Mrs Hudson isn't falling for the open window anymore, and says if he wants to smoke he'll have to do if off her property. He knows she only said it because she thought he wouldn't go out in the cold and wet, and that he's too miserable to put up a fight – she wouldn't have picked one otherwise. So he's proving her wrong.

He stamps on every step so she'll definitely hear, and checks his mobile for the sixth time in the last hour, hand on the front door. Then he pushes it open, and collides with someone on the front step. He frowns and is about to turn indignant before realising the someone is a completely drenched John Watson.

'Oh,' he says, mouth agape like a comedy fish, eyes raking over the sodden green coat (collar up), plastered down hair and murderous expression. 'Hello.'

'Can I stay here?' John asks shortly, his fingers twitching, dripping.  
  
Sherlock starts. They haven't  spoken in over a month. He blinks rapidly. 'Tonight?'  
  
'Yeah, tonight,' John says, sounding impatient. 'Can I stay here tonight?'  
  
'Well I...' his throat is tight, but he forces a smile to emerge with a minute shake of his head.  Why would he even have to think about it? 'Yes of course.'

 

His room's still there, and the bed's still made, but John sleeps on the sofa without a pillow. They don’t speak until the morning.

 

The morning is groggy. The traffic noise is slow, the light is grey, and the kitchen smells of dodgy tinned foods. Dust swills lazily in the stagnant air; John snores, head smothered with a pillow.

Sherlock pads into the room as quietly as possible, flicks the kettle on and the toast down, and waits. He forgot socks and his toes are getting cold on the stone. John used to nag him about buying slippers, he said cold feet make the rest of you cold and "then I'll have to deal with your whining". He took his with him when he moved out, but Sherlock left a pair of socks at the foot of the sofa for him, after he'd gone to sleep of course.

At last the kettle bubbles as if someone's upset it and there's a groan and a creaking from the sofa. When another groan and a clicking of joints signal definite signs of life, Sherlock goes to the fridge for butter. They actually have some. 'Did you have a fight?' he asks, sniffing at it suspiciously.

A loud sigh.

Okay, not going down that route just yet. 'I'm making toast.'

'I didn’t know you could.'

The corners of his mouth twitch. Then again, the cold butter _is_ proving uncooperative. He considers shoving it in the microwave. 'And tea. You know I can do tea.'

'As long as it's just milk you're putting in,' John replies, wandering into the kitchen now with rumpled hair and a rumpled shirt, hand on the back of his neck. 'Are you nuking the butter?'

'It wasn't spreading,' Sherlock says defensively with his hand on the button.

'Right okay, suppose it's your microwave.'

'And my sofa.'

At last a smile as John pulls up a chair. 'And _your_ best friend, you git, I'm allowed to stay over aren’t I?'

'Course,' Sherlock slams the tea down, probably too forcefully, but "Best friend" still packs a punch even now. 'Just concerned.'

'Well don't be.'

A silence, four bars rest. Then, nervously, pianissimo, fingers wobbly on the milk bottle as he pours: 'What did you fight about?'

John rolls his eyes, says – darkly but not angrily – 'Leave off and drink your tea.'

The microwave beeps aggressively, ripping the resulting quiet and Sherlock jumps. The butter has been reduced to a puddle.

 

John doesn't return to the flat during the day or evening, despite what Sherlock hopes as he smokes guiltily under the cafe's awning, but later he spies a toothbrush on the side of the bathroom sink – a foreign entity. It's new, and travel sized, designed to fold away. It bares the unblemished logo of the chemists near the end of the high street, by the tube station, _on the way here._ Either John's more forgetful than anyone could have predicted, or he left it purposefully. Sherlock choses to believe the latter.

 

 

After six weeks the photo goes up. His phone screen lights up like a harsh white beacon in the night, blinding him as he rolls over to check. A blog update? At three in the morning? He unlocks the screen and waits.

The post has no title, and no text. Only a single photograph. The photograph that will hover by his window as he tries to sleep, or in his periphery as he tries to work, for the next fortnight. It shows John asleep on a sofa, not unlike the other night, but instead of burying his face in the Union Jack, he's slumped over the bundle of blankets and fat that is Rachel. He looks exhausted, but he's smiling down at her, chin resting on his hand to stop from collapsing on top of her. His hair's still a mess and he's taken a leaf out of Sherlock's book in getting a ratty towelling dressing gown, but he's still as endearing as ever – if not more so. But it isn't that which gets Sherlock's attention, not immediately anyway. No, his gaze is drawn to Rachel's. She's awake, but not crying. In fact her wondrous eyes are wide open crystal pools. But it's the look in them, the look of effortless, naive happiness and guilt free admiration that draws him. The pure affection and awe as she gazes up at her sleeping father. Her tiny hands are outstretched, her barely fingers curling inwards towards his jaw. She's barely over a month old and she already loves him.

 

Well, it's an easy enough mistake to make.


	6. So Many Times and So Many Ways

Another six weeks trudge by, but not as awful as the first. There's texting now, even the occasional phone call, usually around one. John's lunch break starts at half twelve – he's working some days because "someone's got to". Sherlock's working again too. One murder, three thefts and a blackmail, all in six weeks. It's enough to almost take his mind off the presence that won't leave his shoulders.

Lestrade is the only one to notice he's not on top form. When the murder takes him a whole week, he's pulled aside.

'Look,' the inspector says, hands shoved deep in his pockets, 'whatever's bothering you...'

'Nothing's bothering me.'

'Yeah, okay... Well whatever, if you ever want to... talk, or...'

'No.'

'We could get a drink or –'

'I don't want to.'

'Right, course. Yeah. Well if you ever... Anything...' He shrugs, trailing off. Sally calls him and he lumbers away, offering a small smile as he goes.

Later, Sherlock remembers he should have said thank you. John would have reminded him if he was there; then again if John was there they wouldn't have been having the conversation.

Everything's slow without him.

 

 

It's over three months since the fateful day Rachel Watson entered the world. The phone calls have become almost daily, and they're the high point of any and all days in which they feature. They started a few days after the "turning up in the rain" incident, with an unexpected ring, three flustered attempts to push "accept" and a tentative "hey?".

Now they have a routine. Mainly Sherlock talks about work, and John yawns and says it sounds interesting, and interjects exclamations of awe whenever appropriate. Then they move on to the second act, which is mainly comprised of John skirting questions about his own home life, but happily expanding on any Rachel related questions. His voice literally gains new life when he talks about her, even in sighing and complaining and more yawning. He sounds like a cliché, a babbling brook, a summer breeze. Questions about Mary prompt a snap or a nervous sidestep or one of the lies by omission he's so good at, but he'll talk about Rachel easily and enthusiastically.

This time is different. The call comes later, around five – the first sign that something's off. Sherlock would be lying if he said he hadn't been checking for missed calls since midday, but each time he does he peeks at something else too, his inbox or email, as a limp excuse for whipping his phone out like it's burning.

The familiar voice saying 'hey, sorry' is like the first pierce of a needle in its instantaneous relief. Weight gone, worry pushed aside, all forgotten, swimming instead in the comforting warmth of routine.

'Hello,' he replies as he always does, trying to sound like he's not smiling.

'Hi. Good day?' It's such basic question and as the sharpest mind in Britain he really should be bored with it right now. But he's not. For some reason answering predictably with an obvious 'fine' doesn't annoy him like it should.

'Oh,' John says, then takes an audible deep breath that makes it obvious this is the end point in their basic conversation. Something's about to change. Sherlock shuts the lid of his laptop in anticipation. There's a pause, then words come gushing down the line. 'Look, I'm sorry to ask you, I know it's last minute and you haven’t been round for ages but- but do you think you could watch Rachel for a few hours?'

The true meaning of the words takes a while to register. They're so slow acting that John starts to elaborate, probably remembering their last longest silence, back before the wedding, and not wanting a repeat.

'Mary's gone out and I don't think she'll be in till late, but I'm supposed to be on a late shift and...'

His words go straight over Sherlock's head; he's a detective after all, a problem solver and his mind skips immediately to the new key information. 'You want me to be alone with her?'

John falters. 'Well, yeah,' he replies like it's obvious, then goes on somewhat more nervously, a tone that would make most people feel guilty, if they hadn't just been thrown a curveball. 'If it's not too much to ask? It's just the money would be really–'

Sherlock's not thinking about money. 'You trust me to be alone with her?' he asks with sincere surprise.

'What? Yeah, course I do,' John assures him, sounding soft and honest and for all the world like his ex-flatmate would never even think of doing anything that could be considered not strictly baby-proof. On the other end of the line Sherlock stands and folds his arms tightly across his chest, definitely not smiling. 'It's only a few hours, I mean if you're busy–'

'I'm not.' _Damn._ _Too quick._

'Oh, brilliant, you'll watch her then?'

From the doorway there's a knock and a familiar cooing. _Does she ever interrupt at a convenient time?_ Sherlock turns away from his ever intrusive landlady and lowers his voice.

'Yes. At yours you mean?'

Mrs Hudson ignores his unwelcoming back and trots into the kitchen, rustling thin plastic bags. She's smiling, he can tell, amused. It's irritating and embarrassing, and irritating that it's embarrassing, because it shouldn't matter; he's arranging babysitting, not sneaking out of his parents' house in the middle of a rainstorm. He's not fourteen.

The line is still buzzing and he realises he's missed half of whatever John was saying listening to cans and milk bottles clanking. Still, he catches the most important part: 'Anyway, thanks.'

He hates that it affects him at all, makes him clear his throat and turn even further out of earshot only to murmur back a humiliatingly bashful 'it's fine.' He even ads  'it's... nothing,' which makes Mrs Hudson snicker behind him.

They agree a time, somewhat hurriedly, even though Sherlock is sure the unpacking pace is slowing in the kitchen on purpose, but hang up reluctantly as always – at least it's reluctant at this end, he can't be sure about the other – after a few "okay"s.

He puts the phone down at waits.

Eleven seconds.

'Sooo,' she prompts eagerly, inquisitive, approaching from the kitchen, 'you're going to meet up with John and the baby? Didn't know babysitting was your thing...'

'Rachel,' he answers tartly, ignoring the jibe, turning around and slumping into his chair, 'yes.'

She hums. 'Rachel. It's a pretty name, very popular in the nineties.'

He doesn't answer, goes back to his phone and sets an alarm for six, even though he won't forget. Both John and Mrs Hudson have told him separately that a watched kettle never boils, but according to science and common sense it will, so he continues to check the clock's progress every minute or so until the bell sounds, long after she's left and the sky has started to darken.

 

 

'Thanks for coming,' John pulls the door shut as Sherlock steps inside and looks around. It's a small hallway, cheap carpet, boring paint. Devoid of personality or interest. He can only tell who lives there because of the smells. The air feels too light, screams middle class family who are "just too busy to Hoover much".

It's only when he follows John into the living area that there are any signs of a third person. Then it's quintessential new parents and he's hit with it like a greyhound in full pelt. The thirties kitchen/lounge looks like someone bombed a nursery. It's littered with building blocks and bottle teats and tiny singular socks. In the corner a scuffed up coffee table heaves under the weight of nappies and blankets and talcum powder. He's so intent on the far mess that he walks right into the travel crib that's been shoved between the breakfast bar and wall like a piece of paper under a wobbly table leg. He raises his eyebrows and John shrugs.

'I would apologise for the mess but you never did and yours was much worse so.' He continues as he takes the long way round into the lounge, 'at least Rachel isn't keeping bodies lying round.'

At the mention of Rachel Sherlock remembers why he's really there with an unpleasant jolt and looks down into the crib. And there she is, a bow-legged blob dressed in rainbow stripes, her fists like little pink misshapen balls of plasticine. Her eyes are screwed shut and crusted. she's snoring. 'Is she–'

'Sleeping yeah.' John answers his unfinished question. Sherlock looks up ever so slightly to watch his expression and feels a pang. He's gazing down too at the slumbering mound, eyes soft and lashes low, mouth pulled easily into a secretive smile. Purely pride and adoration; it's a good look for anyone. He doesn't look like this often and they've been apart six weeks: Sherlock files it away.

Either John feels him looking, or just remembers he's not alone, because he's suddenly looking at his watch and cursing. 'I've gotta run, okay, but uh,' he paces back around into the kitchen, grabbing a jacket, 'there's milk in the fridge, you have to reheat it but–'

'Not in the microwave,' Sherlock says, 'I know.'

John doesn't respond. His tone grows more agitated as he rummages for keys. 'And sometimes she rolls over when she's sleeping but she's got to stay–'

'On her back, everyone knows that.'

'Yeah, well she probably won't even wake up, but if she does the changing stuff's all in here, and there's loads of kids' stuff on the telly that'll calm her down–'

 _'Peppa Pig_. You said last week.' Sherlock cuts across him properly this time. 'Stop worrying.' It's ironic because the prospect of being trusted with an entire human, John's entire human, is making him feel like he's the one who needs Rachel's "calm down programs". Anxious energies zigzag down his spinal cord. Still, he smiles despite the fluttering, or tries to.

'Right,' John smiles back, 'right. She probably won't even wake up.'

'Go, you'll be late.' The detective turned babysitter tells him, relishing in their easy conversation. Simple, familiar, friendly.

That doesn't last long though, because John grins again, says 'you're a life saver' – apparently not noticing the irony of the comment given their origins and respective life stories – and goes up on tiptoe to place a casual kiss on Sherlock's cheek before disappearing out of the door.

Sherlock doesn't move for a good minute. _That_ just happened. He blinks so rapidly the light reflecting off his eyes would give anyone a migraine.  _That_ wasn't friendly. His entire face feels warmer than usual, and his cheek positively stings. Friends don't do _that_. He wants to touch it, to feel if anything has changed – it feels as if something's changed – but he's scared to, in case he tarnishes it. Instead he remains motionless, bar his eyelids and twitching fingers, until there's a noise from the crib. Rachel makes a gargled sound, then coughs, then starts to cry.

'It's okay,' he tells her, voice croaky from his parched throat. 'We're just friends.'

 

Half an hour later and Rachel is still spewing noise that sounds like a cat with its tail trapped in a door.

'Shhh,' he tells her, again and again. The first time confused, then irritated, exasperated, persuasive, desperate. The little warm body curled tightly into his chest feels alien and uncomfortable, wriggling and grabbing fistfuls of his shirt. His hair's a mess, his cuffs undone and sleeves pushed up to his elbows. 'Rachel, shhh, please shhh. Go back to sleep...'

Nothing works: he changed her twice, though she doesn’t need it the second time, and contorts his arm into wild positions trying to hold her whilst he heats milk that she refuses to drink. It's insane, he thinks, that the world's only consulting detective can't figure out what's wrong, what it is that's hurting her. She's a child for God's sake, and she's hardly keeping her feelings buried. He can do a titration in less than three minutes, can strip a person, living or otherwise, of their secrets in less, but he can't figure out this wailing infant.

He readjusts his hand on the back of her head, flicking the rubber of the second bottle top against his forearm like a needle to check the temperature. Her hair is getting coarser as well as longer, it rubs against his fingers more and more like bristles than down, and it only serves to make the bottle slip. He knows that hair though he's never touched it. Rachel wails and he shushes her for what must surely be the thousandth time, gripping her bottle with sore and tiered fingers. She cries louder as he takes the long way back to the sagging sofa, so he tries the periodic table instead.

'Hydrogen, helium, lithium, beryllium, Rachel please…'

She only squirms more, and her legs like the Michelin Man's threatening to hit him in the chin.

'Boron, carbon, nitrogen…'

Despair settles in the pit of his stomach. _Can you break a baby?_

'Oxygen, fluorine…'

Maybe it's too unfamiliar, he's too unfamiliar. Okay, something familiar to a baby, to John and Mary's baby. He remembers John bedraggled and sodden on his doorstep; shouting, maybe. He thinks back to the hospital, to the wedding, and brings Rachel's blonde head up to his collar to murmur in her ear.

'Shhh, love…'

He can't help frown, the word feels odd and alien on his tongue, the letters out of place in his mouth, contorting it into strange shapes and outlines of affections. He hasn’t said it for six weeks, and he's never done "terms of endearment" before: he's low on experience and when you don’t know something well enough it doesn’t just come back to you – you have to practice.

It seems to have worked though, a little. Rachel quiets for a millisecond, and in that minuscule baby heartbeat of a pause Sherlock thinks he's fixed it.

Then it starts again. And he resigns himself.

'Alright,' he says through gritted teeth, lifting her up by the armpits to stare right into those eyes.  'You win. We'll watch the talking cartoon pig.' 

 

Nearly an hour later, they're out of _Peppa Pig_ and Rachel has been quiet for about 90% of it. It really is a transformation, her eyes widen and her head flops out of Sherlock's elbow to crane at the bright colours and shapes. When the screen finally, _finally,_ cuts he looks down at her and can almost see a smile.

'Well I've no idea why that amused you,' he tells her, 'it was riddled with plot holes. And the ending of that one was stupidly out of character, there's no way Pepper would say that.'

Rachel gurgles a little, and he frowns, wiping yet more drool off her chin with his (far too nice for babysitting) shirt. She doesn’t look tiered yet, her eyes are the size of the moon. _Size of the moon, where is he remembering that from?_ A distant hum from the distant past, a twiddle of a radio dial on a summer afternoon.

'Is there something else you like, hmm?' he readjusts her blanket, soft cotton encrusted with what looks like puree. _Maybe he should run a wash cycle…_ 'Oh,' pressing a few buttons, rocking his arm gently so as not to ruin his hard work, ' _The Bedtime Story_? That sounds promising.'

 _The Bedtime Story_ is promising, but it turns out he's more interested in the storyteller than Rachel is. He's never watched a programme like this without seeing his arch nemesis, and this Moriarty-free version seems more calming and child-friendly. Halfway through another woman joins the first to tell a story about a princess with puppets.

'Oh, well they’re obviously sleeping together,' he comments flippantly, glancing down. Rachel blinks and stretches a hand around his thumb. It's almost humbling, almost one of those heart pausing "gosh I'm a parent" moment. Except that he's not and her fingers are squeezing too hard. Still, he doesn’t move her, just stares like she's a wonder, a fantastically ordinary wonder. A raindrop, rather than the Angel Falls, a perfectly spherical grain of sand, rather than the pyramids. 'You know,' he says, glancing back up at the screen five minutes later, 'I'm positive this Leslie woman hasn't even consulted with a dragon in preparation for this role.' He checks back down, and Rachel's perfect eyes are closed, her face like a bright pink sleepy beach ball.

 

Then there's a rattle of keys, the door creaks and a pair of heels wipe twice on their mat. There are only two people with keys to the house. Sherlock looks up as she enters, and smiles, trying to play nicely. He is in her living room holding her child after all.

'Oh, hello,' says Mary, sounding confused and suspicious.

'Hello.'

She frowns and lifts her palms. 'What are you doing in my living room?'

She's not drunk, but she's clearly been out. Her eyes are sagging and her hair is sporting more flyaways than normal, her heels a little steeper than you'd expect for a woman with a three month old child. And someone's irritated her, that’s why she's back. He'd like to think that's why she's "taking it out" on him, but they both know it isn’t. They're natural competition, they just are. Organisms specialised for the same purpose with opposite adaptations. 'Watching _The Bedtime Story._ '

'Why are you watching TV with my daughter?' Mary asks, only slightly biting. She dumps her bag on the floor. 'Where's John?'

'Working.' Pause. 'You were out and he drew the late shift so…' he trails off, quailing a little under her gaze. Her head tilts, not like Rachel's does, like a snake, or an irritated post-natal woman who owns over 50% of the weapons in her wardrobe. 'I'm here, with Rachel.' Sherlock finishes, somewhat lamely.

'Oh!' Mary says, nodding with a sardonic smile, a habit she definitely shares with her husband. 'Right. Okay then. Nice of him to text me about that.' Her voice is ice and irony as she crosses over to the two on the sofa, and switches the lesbian presenters off. Unconsciously, Sherlock swallows and carefully tightens Rachel's blanket around her in the tense quiet. 'Is she asleep now?' Mary asks.

'Yes.'

'Well,' she smiles now as he looks up at her – an angle he's not used to. 'Thanks, but I guess that means we can both go to bed then.'

 _Oh, I see._ 'Right,' he says, 'of course,' hurriedly standing and moving as quickly and quietly as possible to the crib. 'Well,' as he gently lays the surprisingly heavy bundle down, 'any time you need–'

She cuts him off. 'Thanks.'

They're both standing now, either sides of the room, glaring, staring binaries. Then she offers him one more smile and an exaggerated yawn. 'I'm wiped, you can see yourself out can't you?' She exits before he's even nodded, but darts back in around the door frame a second later, still overly chipper. Swung like a pendulum. 'Oh, one thing, you won't tell John I'm annoyed with him will you? I swear I'm just exhausted.'

'I… of course.' He promises, but she must know he's lying really. If John asks anything of him, she must know who’s side he'll take.

Still, she flashes another 'thanks' and disappears, leaving Sherlock standing solitary in her living room, now wandering what he was doing there in the first place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> patd trash #confirmed


	7. I Don't Know, How Often Are You Away?

More months pass, weeks and days blurring, smudging. He stops counting minutes and starts counting moments; stops counting time and starts counting times.

 

Times when the rap on the front door isn't the desperation or agitation of a client, but the anger or betrayal or apologies of his friend. Times when rather than waving a shivering widow or mother into a chair, he can offer someone _theirs_. There are times when John storms up the stairs as if each one has personally attacked him, and there are times he'll climb them like a hill, dejected, defeated.

'You had a fight?' Sherlock will ask, every time.

And every time John says: 'I don't want to talk about it.'

Sometimes he'll try: 'what about?'

Those times the response is still: 'don't want to talk about it.'

Every time Sherlock will offer him his key back, and every time John will shake his head and say 'this is the last time.'

 

There are the times when he gets to see Rachel; the best and worst possible times. When Mary's 'out', when John's working far too late. Once or twice he comes round when they're both there, just as company, he supposes. It's never smooth sailing, the atmosphere is far from serene, the conversation choppy, but it's worth it. They're his friends after all. And even the times when their interjections begin to boil and he slinks out like an alley cat, he walks home feeling every molecule of nitrogen, oxygen and carbon-dioxide between his feet and the pavement, literally walking on air.

 

There are times he just watches over the top of his phone as the parents struggle with nappies and cardboard books, and times where he joins in, flinching at too hot milk on his forearm, getting trapped in endless loops of toys that are somehow on the floor again the moment he looks away, and even later, rarely, engaging Rachel in babbling, gurgling "conversations". Mostly there are times watching _Pepper Pig_ or other equally awful television that for some reason fails to put him to sleep as easily as it works on her.

 

There was the time they got a takeaway and John fell asleep with Rachel and a Tupperware in his lap, snoring over the top of _'The Bedtime Story'_. Sherlock had let himself out.

 

There was the time husband and wife decided on an outing together (the Monday after a Sunday fight), leaving him with their daughter on a rainy afternoon. He'd been examining insoles, and she'd managed to sit herself up on the counter top, lolling like a rag doll. Since then she's sat with him every time, wobbling and smacking the surface with her floppy fingers, making him smile despite himself. The times she smiles back are the best, though it's not a real smile, more of a gaping toothless  hole in her face that opens as her cheeks grow even chubbier, but her eyes are brighter.

 

There was the time they finally got round to painting the nursery. A little room, about two metres square. When they'd stood in the doorway, daunted, it'd looked barren and dismal, with cloudy cream walls and a dusty dreary carpet. But, after heated discussion and hours of even hotter manual labour, it looked almost cosy. They'd chosen yellow. Bright, canary, custard, lemon, sunshine yellow.

'Why would anyone want a room to be yellow?' Mary had asked. 'I mean, yellow? Really?'

'It's cheery,' John had said defensively, 'and gender neutral.'

They'd already decided pink was out of the question.

From his hovering position in the corner Sherlock had ventured to add 'It'll look beautiful when the sun sets.'

Mary shot him a look, but had eventually shrugged and rolled up her sleeves to join them.

 

Mainly the time is taken up with the times in between. In between the fighting and the babysitting, the stagnant times. Fiddling with his phone, flicking the lock screen on, off, on, off, as if it will speed up the long, long seconds. As if it will speed up John's reactions, or the patient who're wasting his time, or whatever Rachel's doing to distract him – not that Sherlock wants to deprive either of them of each other – or his typing, not that there's any hope of that. Time moves like a lazy river, his brain like a hyperactive metronome.

 

When Rachel is six months old her parents throw an awful party.

'It's not a party,' John insists over the phone, 'it's a gathering, a get together.'

Sherlock taps a couple of times on the table, considering. 'How many?'

He can hear John sighing down the line and half smiles with pure nostalgia. 'For God's sake, Sherlock, it's not a party. It's Greg, Molly, Mrs H and maybe some work people round for drinks.' There's a pause, a "don't make me beg because we both know I'm too proud" pause. 'Will you come?'

On the one hand, an evening out of the nest of boredom 221b has become and time with John and Rachel, on the other, an evening out of his nest in a room full of people cooing over John and Rachel and the whole wonderful picture that he doesn't get to be a part of.

He chews his lip. ''Course.'

 

The gathering/get together is awful, at least six people from the clinic turn up, all clamouring to get a peek at the daughter of their co-workers. It's unbearable; ohh-ing and aww-ing and sighing and laughing floods the now miraculously tidy living room. Sherlock stands in the corner, clutching a bottle that's been pushed into his hand, picking off the label with his thumb nail, watching, as if through a window. He watches the primitive crowds with a frown, like a naturalist; he watches Rachel with only the very hint of a smile playing on his mouth; watches John with baited breath, as always. But mostly he watches Mary with his eyes narrowing to slits – there's not a second she's gone from her husband's side. Well literally there is, he allows, she's busy playing hostess, chatting to friends or swinging her daughter back and forth like a fairground ride with a smile like a _Mothercare_ catalogue front page. But figuratively, she doesn't let him alone. Her eyes stay trained on him the entire evening, they don't budge. She touches his arm as she passes drinks, gives him a sideways smile as they swap Rachel over. Tiny movements, tiny gestures that have 'mine' written all over them. Or maybe he's got grit on his usually pristine lens again.

She looks away from Rachel, laughing, and catches his eye. Her stare turns chillingly reptilian as she silently challenges: 'what?'.

Then again, maybe not. Can he blame her? It's not like it's unhealthy, not really. It's not like he wouldn’t do the same if –

 

'Hello again,' says a voice at his elbow and he very nearly starts. He's exasperated as he turns, insides turned to jellied dread, but, upon seeing her, he's stunned into solidification.

'Sarah!' He never likes stating the obvious, but that’s just how unexpected her presence at his side is.

She grins, tucks her hair behind her ear, obviously uncomfortable with a shorter cut than she's used to. 'I'm surprised you remember me.'

He offers her a small smile in return, 'How could I forget.'

There's a pause while she's staring smiling at Rachel, who's now screaming and flailing in Lestrade's clumsy arms, before continuing with her eyes on her bottle. 'So, are you staring at him or her?'

Her words are the riptide that finally pulls him under, spiralling. 'I...' he chokes on his hesitant sip of beer and whips round, infernal mouth giving away the stuttering of his insides, 'I don't...'

She ducks her head, 'thought so.' In the silence that follows his nail rips right through the bottle label. No one ever tells you humiliation feels like hunger, your stomach growling at you to fix the situation ASAP. 'You know I really thought he'd pick up on it,' Sarah says. 'Eventually.'  
  
_God,_ Sherlock thinks, _is it that obvious?_ His eyes itch but he only tightens his grip on the bottle. The glass groans.

Sarah offers him another shy smile, overflowing with pity, before drawing a breath and asking 'Do you want another drink?'

'No,' he answers hurriedly, coughing. 'No, no thank you.'

She leaves then, and he throws the last of the drink down his desert dry throat. Blinking against the bitter heat of the alcohol, he goes back to watching Rachel's progression around the guests like pass the parcel.

 

 

The next time John turns up on his doorstep he learns why.

It's afternoon, late. The day's been unproductive and the light is fading, bathing the flat in a cleansing, soft pink light – a dappled glow through the half drawn curtains. It's the kind of light you get in summer evenings, but it's come early this year, confusingly, along with the cherry blossoms. The kind of light that looks wonderful in Rachel's sunshine bedroom. All Sherlock's heard amongst the few Londoners who engage in public small talk since the start of April has been "isn't the weather lovely?"s followed by "yes, very surprising"s and "it won't last long"s. He doesn't mind it; it means longer days, shorter nights, more thinking, less sleeping. He likes the soothing insistence of the light, like a softly nagging doctor. It bounces and plays off the lens of his magnifier and into his eye, but if he ignores it and squints just _so_ he gets a flawless view of the dust he's been trying to pin down for weeks. He smiles sideways: _eloquent._

That's when there's a rap at the door, well three to be exact. He knows instantly who's knocks they are. They're slightly anxious but mainly tiered knocks, though whether they're tiered from lack of sleep or tiered of giving in he can't yet tell. He puts down the glass slowly and goes to the door.

 

John doesn't look angry, which is a good thing. He doesn't even look particularly sad. He stands on the top step like a Briton in the doorway of the Tube – like he's got every right to be there, but still feels the need to apologise to everyone else: shoulders hunched, hands in pockets. He's wearing a cardigan and a 'here we go again' expression; he hasn't brought anything else.

'Four in the afternoon,' he says, with expertly perfected English sarcasm overlaying the defeat. 'Reckon that's a record.'

Sherlock asks 'fight?' expecting no response, and moves to the side to let him in.

 

The usual First Hour passes; The Hour of pacing, or tea drinking, or aggressive typing, or silence. This time is one of the times John goes through Sherlock's inbox, starring cases and deleting spam. It's one of the best situations, the lesser of the evils, because it means he's bored, which, though not the ideal situation to be in as a father with a suffering relationship, does mean he's not on the verge of a breakdown. In fact, the atmosphere is almost calm. Almost, not quite, because Sherlock's still watching, hovering, shooting glances.

After the hour he asks the inevitable, routine question 'what did you fight about?'. Really, after so many "don't ask" looks, you'd think he wouldn't feel his throat tighten as he does so. But his insight into their troubled home life is limited to the months before Christmas and Appledore, when he was constantly on hold. The more than a "bit not good" months. They say for addicts the worst possible thing is to go absolutely cold turkey, and that the next worst thing is exposure; the two extremes and the swing between them. It's not a lie, not in the slightest, though many things they tell addicts are. If John's a drug than he's had all the highest highs and lowest lows. He went through the wonderful initial discovery, introduced to rapture by a well-meaning friend. He went through the ripping torture of withdrawal, two long, agonizing years of it. Then a joyous relapse, and a forgiveness like sinking into a purely luxurious bath of relief. Then distance that hurt, then a bullet to the chest that hurt too, then those six months which hurt the most. He'd wanted John back by his side of course he had, but not like that, that wasn't fair. The two of them at Baker Street just as they should be, but it wasn't the same. More coming and going, apart not together. Never knowing when the next release would come – an addict's curse. This is why he keeps asking, because he never knew, and he has to. That's his job after all.

He's expecting stony silence or a glare, in no way is expecting answer, and especially not the answer he gets. 'I called her Amanda,' John says, without looking up.

Sherlock stares, shakes his head, stares again, confused. 'Who?'

'Mary,' comes the unemotional answer. Then a statement that he only knows is a question because old habits die hard: '"missing divorce papers found covered in blood?"'

He doesn't answer, still frowning trying to observe and not just see. Is he missing something crucial or is it dark humour? There's nothing really funny about a marriage breaking down. Then again there's nothing really funny about murder, or faking your death, and they seem to be able to laugh at those. 'You called Mary Amanda?' he repeats.

'And Amy,' John says, not really clarifying anything. 'And Abigail. Alice, Anna, Angelica, Amelia. To see of she'd respond.' He pauses as Sherlock finally understands, doesn't look up. 'Ohh, "my ex is on a murderous rampage", could be interesting –'

But Sherlock cuts him off, not listening. He's thinking of the memory stick and the fight that started it all. He's feeling God knows what. 'You wanted to know her real name.' he says it like he's found a murderers motive, but he's awash with sagging sympathy that's mostly alien to a case environment.

John shrugs, and at last puts the Blackberry down. 'I was curious. She got annoyed, understandably. Said "I thought Mary was good enough for you".'

Sherlock remembers. He's not proud of it but who wouldn't have listened at the door? A quick fag first, for some much needed stress relief and to give them time to shout it out, but yes – he listened at the door. He's eavesdropped a lot in his life and heard some truly awful things through keyholes, but none had left such a heavy impact on his gut. As humans we can't help put people on pedestals, and sometimes it feels like we've done it so much, that we're surrounded by so many wonderful people, that we're alone at the bases of all these great marble pillars, lost in a forest of white. Sherlock's been there, and hated it, so he raised himself up instead, to look out over their heads. But that conversation, those prepared words hit home; they were the first in an age to make him start chipping again, because John Watson deserves every pedestal in the ancient and modern worlds. He swallows before asking 'Wasn't it?'

John answers with an inappropriately roguish smile and a shrug. 'Yeah,' he says, 'but wouldn't you want to know? So I said "of course it's good enough for me, Angela". And then she threw me out.'

His retelling is so matter-of-fact that at first Sherlock thinks he's kidding. It's unbelievable that a doctor and an assassin under the same roof would end up arguing over something as stupid as a name joke. Honestly, he's finding it hard to side against Mary in this. 'Understandable.'

'Yeah...' John nods slowly. 'That one was my fault.' He considers for a moment before rising from his chair at last and heading to the kitchen. 'Tea?' he calls over the noise of the kettle he's already switched on.

Sherlock also has to raise his voice over the bubbling, but the motivation it provides is good. he might not have asked otherwise. 'The last one wasn't?'

He waits.

He doesn't get an answer until the tea arrives and he starts sipping in guilty silence, cursing at pushing too far. _Never quite enough sugar_ , he thinks, but he never really minded.

They slurp in companionable, mildly award silence for a minute or two before John speaks. It's the kind of waiting when you're surer each second that the event you're waiting for isn't going to happen, the probability shrinking and shrinking, but still there, so you still wait.

'The last one I asked her to get rid of her armoury in the dresser,' he says, deadpan. He sets his cup down. 'She said no.'

Sherlock remembers staring like a child confronted with science or injustice as she turned around in Magnussen's office. He supposes she must have kept all that equipment somewhere. They must be the only parents in Britain with two medical degrees and at least two handguns between them; picturing that argument would make most people nervous.

He swallows. 'And the one before?'

'I wanted to know why you didn't tell me she'd shot you.'

A clouded command a hazy hospital room: _you don't tell him. You don't tell John_.

Another silence, they go back to drinking. Then, as he's rounding speedily on mid-point of his mug, Sherlock asks his clumsy question. 'Shouldn't... I mean, wasn't that my fault?'

At this John rolls his eyes, properly, with the exasperated fondness his friend hasn't seen in far too long, and blows a gentle breath of almost laugher. He lays his tea aside and reaches once more for Sherlock's phone. 'Don't be stupid,' he says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> soz got a bit meta there oops.....


	8. Keep Your Eyes Fixed On Me

May, and whilst Rachel's bedroom walls are covered with splodges of crayon and dirt, Sherlock's are once again a lattice of red string. It may be cliché, but the process of cutting and sticking and pinning is rhythmical and repetitive, it would help anyone think. He's got a case, a good one, finally, and the distraction and the fun of it all is the best possible medicine.

The Crows, brother and sister, twenty-six and twenty-three, Eton and Cheltenham Ladies, straight A students, and serial murderers. They're brilliant, flawless in every way, viciously meticulous. But he drops every ounce of concentration as the phone rings. That's only to be expected – it won't be long until Rachel is crawling, and for some reason he doesn't want to miss it.

It's been raining all afternoon, and the sound against the windows grows to a wailing, hammering din as he fishes out his mobile. They've been promising it since March: a "wild spring". It's been a long time coming and it sounds like it's had it with all the waiting. The noise means he'll almost have to yell down the line, but at least it covers the delicate throb of elevated pulse in his ear. Still. After six months. The caller ID, nothing else, and his body jumps to attention.

'Hello?' he asks, far too loudly, sounding brash and public school. He closes his eyes in annoyance because if there's anything he hates it's proving the blog right.

'Hey it's me,' John says, as if there's any doubt. He doesn't even pause for breath, though by sounds of it he doesn't have much. He demands 'Do you have anything on?'

'I... what?'

'A case.’ his voice is snappy and irritable. That plus the time plus the sudden interest makes his next question obvious, the words mute. 'Do you have a case on?'

Sherlock pauses, glances back at his collage of death and thinks that this can't possibly be healthy. Then again when did he become the doctor, who's he to say what's healthy? They're both messes really, as complex and his mesh of murder and string. All of these thoughts are secondary though of course, trebles over the bass note of longing and nostalgia. He wants, simple as. So he answers with the affirmative and the breath of relief John blows out is almost visible.

'Good one?' The curiosity is so wrong and so them, it makes their conversation more light-hearted and buoyant, a helium injection. He smiles.

'Two murders in two weeks.'

'Great.' John doesn't sound great, he sounds agitated and still short of breath. Sherlock can just hear his shoes smacking against the pavement and wanders how far he's got from home. 'I mean, not great... but... can I help?'

Sherlock starts, blinking, running that last part again and once more. His instinct is yes, yes. He's waited long enough hasn't he? Enough for a lifetime, far too much. So why is his mouth failing him? The question hangs.

'Sherlock? I want to help, can I help?'

The second question jogs his stumbling brain. Since when did his brain stumble? He's working for God's sake, this shouldn't be happening. 'Well, yes, of course, but I...'

'Right. I'm coming over now, okay?'

That he can believe. 'Okay...' he says, and hangs up first.

 

 

It's like the good old days to start with, and it is good. Once John is caught up on the situation he sits forward in his chair, watching Sherlock pace and interjecting every so often. There are the usual "brilliant"s and a few "so what"s and an annoyed "what are you talking about", but mainly he just mutters and sips tea and thinks. Neither of them want to think about anything complicated with feelings right now, their energies are high and what they need is puzzles and adrenaline. Both of which it seems the Crows can provide, with their clever targeting and excellent timing.

Eventually their companionable relative quiet has to end, and it ends the only way they know how: with realisation. 'Oh!'

'What?' John asks urgently, setting his tea down and standing to join Sherlock at the wall of string.

'What is it?'

'It's brilliant!'

The doctor groans beside him. 'God. What's brilliant?'

But it's no use, Sherlock's on a roll now, with the A-Z and Tube maps racing behind his eyes. He dashes to the door and scrambles for his coat, scarf too, it's very nearly dark now. The Crows may be clever but in the end they're as obvious as anyone. No serial killer can stay truly random forever. He's so high on the initial adrenaline that he risks a wink. 'Besides me?'

John rolls his eyes, grabs his coat. 'Yes besides you. Come on, what is it?' He's got no hope and he knows is, Sherlock's already taking the steps two at a time. 'You're an arse!' he yells down, and Sherlock grins.

'You're the one following me.'

 

 

It feels like they’ve been running for eons, but it must be only seconds. His lungs are swearing like sailors (or soldiers) and his feet are starting to join the protest. But he's still running, they’re still running, together down the route that's clearly illuminated in his mind, brighter than all the blurring streetlights and break-lights. If they can just get there quickly, if they can just run a bit further, they'll catch the Crows right in the act, and Sherlock will win double the interview time, double the court case, and double Brownie Points with Lestrade. There's even a part of him, the John part of him, that hopes they're quick enough to save the life. He'd never have thought that four years ago.

He stops in front of a wall to consider shortcuts. It's an alleyway, walled on all sides, splashed with graffiti tags and piss; the bricks are crumbling.

'Where are we going?' comes a breathless voice from behind.

'It's no use, we'll have to go over,' he replies.

The only response is the familiar exasperated exhale of his name before he's moving again. Then John tugs sharply on his coat tail. 'Hang on for just a second for God's… where are we going?'

'No time, you'll see when we get there.'

'But what are we-'

'We're going to catch them, the Crows, in the act hopefully. We're going to save someone's life if you hurry up.'

There's a still slightly panting beat, then John nods. 'Okay, let me give you a leg up.'

Sherlock frowns. Protesting seems a little hypocritical but he can't help it. 'Should you… I mean, I am taller-'

Now John's frowning, giving the taller man his very best glare. He gets down on one knee, wipes his hand on his jeans and offers it upwards. 'My basic training wasn’t that long ago you know,' he growls, 'I'm pretty sure I still can climb a wall.'

Sherlock looks down at him and swallows hard. He nods.

 

 

Less than two minutes and they're over the wall with surprising agility and running once more. Sounds and hearts racing, feet and lungs pounding and almost resorting to revolt. But the flat's just round the corner. There, he can see it now.

The London wind and smog is vicious as Sherlock takes the fire escape two steps at a time; it whips and smothers. The clangs of his eager shoes slapping against the slippery metal rings and echoes in the dirty air, joining the orchestrated cacophony of the night noise. Sirens and horns blaring, voices raising in shouts and laughs and song, endless footsteps, of trainers, loafers and stilettos. Those are the sounds that everyone hears, the typical, capital sounds. What Sherlock hears is the squealing of tires and revving of the filthy engine of a getaway car, the slamming of doors and the panicked, extraordinarily human shouts of killers. Those are the sounds of his city; they are the sounds that make his heart soar.

He hauls himself up the final steps, his fingers a binary of red and white from gripping the cold steel of the banisters, and practically launches onto the roof terrace.

He pauses, for only a split second. Poised, listening.

Then his ears practically prick and he grins, dashing over to the right. The floor spins but his feet are incessant, following the muffled cries of the Crows. The chase almost over, the prize almost within his sights. His breath is ragged from the sprint, but it'll be worth it when he reaches the precipice and his goal.

He never quite makes it.

As he reaches the step up to the very edge he's jerked back suddenly, held away from the drop.

A hand closes, vice like, on his.

Two men frozen, limbs in limbo, suspended, caught in the action like a photograph. It's a wild grab so their hands don't quite fit, John's fingers are curled into the detective's palm unnaturally, nails digging in. His thumb wraps around the back of Sherlock's wrist, worrying at his coat cuff. It was an instantaneous decision, most likely unconscious, but his grip is as tight as anything, without signs of relenting. He's hanging on for dear life.

Sherlock starts and turns his head. In the thrill of the chase he'd almost forgotten he was being followed. The movements have all been in his usual quick succession, almost frighteningly kinetic, but now, on the edge of a rooftop with no sound except their breathing and the rushing of traffic below them, everything feels slow, sluggish, like his mind's being dragged through tar.

He frowns. He looks down at their roughly conjoined hands with eyes like dinner plates, then at the ledge he's still got one foot on, then at the ground, then back to the fingers pressing into his palm, then to John's face, and the penny clunks into place.

At the same time as realization knocks him like an unpleasantly cold wave, John clears his throat. 'Just... be careful,' he says.

His voice doesn't waver but the flickering street bulbs illuminate the subtle embarrassment underlying clear anxiety in his creased expression and posture.

And just like that Sherlock's heart is reduced from an eagle to a hummingbird, from soaring to a pitiful flutter. He nods weakly and his hand is dropped, roughly, as if it's corrosive. He feels like sagging with the weight of all the possible sadness and guilt in the world. He'd known what he was doing when he climbed up on that roof three years ago and he'd known it wouldn't be forgiven easily, but he didn't expect it to still be so awful now. But it's there, still, the pain of that day is etched and scored all over John's face as he attempts to avoid Sherlock's inquisitive, apologetic eyes.

Sherlock steps off the ledge completely, all thought of the Crows gone from his mind. It's not fair, he thinks, that they've come so far and it still hurts. John's pain is his pain and he didn't ask for any of it. He wants to help, to stop it. He can't. He doesn't feel helpless often but the seeping feeling of uselessness now is horrendous. He feels limp and the London cold is suddenly more biting. He should say something. Shouldn't he? But John's climbing back down the fire escape now, fingers flexing, pretending it didn't happen no doubt.

'They're gone,' he says slowly, in a familiar disappointed, self-desecrating tone. Sherlock doesn't bother checking.

 

 

Their walk back to the nearest tube station is in only slightly less than companionable silence, just listening to the city scape and each other's steps and breathing. On the train itself there's never reason to talk, and it comes as a relief. Sherlock decides emotions should come with a contact-less system.


	9. She Has Completely Turned My Life Around

Eventually, as with most continuous events, the fighting has to stop. But it doesn't fizzle out, John doesn't just stop showing up awkwardly on the doorstep. It goes out dramatically, like the last awe inspiring firework in the display. Though it starts the same as always.

John doesn't even need to knock; this July's brought a stifling heatwave and the windows of 221 are throw as wide as they'll go (people mock the British in heat, but a Victorian townhouse is hardly going to have air conditioning), so Sherlock hears and of course recognises his pacing down the street. It's become such an almost regular event that he's close to being entertained by it, rolling his eyes and smirking, though he knows this ought to bring guilt. When he clambers up over the furniture and darts nimbly down the stairs and flings open the door however, he's hit with more than the sweltering city air.

 

'She's gone.' John says, and it's suddenly different. He doesn't sound angry, upset, even defeated. It's just a statement. It's just a dull knife of a statement and Sherlock can only stare. 'Mary's gone.'

He blinks now, aggressively, against the too-high aspiring sun. Finally notices the sling crossing his friend's chest, complete with tiny blonde head lolling out of the side. Rachel normally stays at home. This must be real. Oh.

Still, he sounds defensive asking 'what do you mean she's gone?'

John answers in the same voice, flat and unchanging, like an old lemonade, or Norfolk. 'I mean she's gone. She's left. She's not in the house, most of her clothes and her stuff is gone, she won't answer her phone -'

'Are you sure she's -'

'- and there's a note on the side that just says "sorry". I mean she's gone.'

The list ends in a dry, heavy silence.

Sherlock doesn't quite know what to feel, which is now as frustrating as not knowing always is. It's one of those situations with an appropriate reaction, one of shock and horror and sympathy, and then the very different reaction of each individual, in this case relief and anticipation. The result is a messy cocktail in the pit of his stomach that's both shaken and stirred.

He plays it safe, and after a moment of more staring into the heated quite just says 'I'm sorry..'

Here he gets a reaction. John closes his eyes, exhales, bows and shakes his head. 'You don't need to...' he starts, but doesn't finish. At this point Rachel starts to whine and gurgle, and he runs a hand through his frazzled hair, highlighting his exposed forearms where supposedly heat and stress have caused him to push his cuffs up to his elbows – a rare sight that's hard to enjoy in the circumstances. 'I just...' he sounds lost, even here on his all too familiar street. 'I need to sleep,' he finishes lamely, and looks up.

His expression is a painful one to look at for too long, and his numb grief hits Sherlock too, vicariously, so that his wanting this over isn't purely selfless. He nods quickly and stands to one side of the hall, holding the door.

John smiles, wearily, thankfully, though he must surely have known he wouldn't be turned away, and heads up the stairs slower than he used to.

 

As he reaches the door Rachel's noises, previously overlooked in the face of a more startling issue, grow louder, brimming into full on cries. Her father, already visibly exhausted, pauses, and from just behind Sherlock watches his shoulders rise and slump. 'I didn't bring any of her stuff...' he says, again not groaning or sighing, just plain speech. He doesn't raise his voice over the crying.

'It's fine,' Sherlock replies, almost too eagerly, because here he can actually be of some help, and squeezes past him into the flat. He's well prepared and stocked for this moment, and being equipped makes the whole situation seen better, feels like he's grappled back some of the reins. He rummages and tugs with his back to the door, but when he re-emerges with a folded travel crib and a pile of thin blankets and turns around he sees that John's eyebrows are rapidly scaling his forehead.

'Why -?'

'In case you needed it.'

Pause. John looks legitimately shocked, impressed, maybe even proud? It's the same look he wears when he watches Sherlock solve something seemingly impossible – bewildered wonderment. 'Thanks,' he murmurs, barely audible above Rachel's racket. They stare for a moment, suspended, before John looks back down and tries half-heartedly to quiet his wailing daughter. With one hand on her soft blonde head he approaches Sherlock's emergency hoard and starts trying to wrangle the crib open with the other. It's this more than anything that strikes Sherlock, because it's so unfair. John shouldn't need to multitask like this, not while sleep deprived and emotionally compromised (though he won't show it) and not even on paid paternity leave. It's not fair. Mary should be here, whether they want her or not. She _should_ be here. In this moment he hates her more than he ever has.

He awkwardly grabs at the struggling hand trying to interpret IKEA instructions. It was supposed to be a gentle and comforting manoeuvre, but it stings and he withdraws it instantly, still he's made his point. 'I'll do it.'

John looks at him like he's said he'll scale a cliff, and it makes his face feel warmer than usual, which of course makes him slightly resentful. Hoping he hasn't visibly coloured he works folding the crib out, which isn't too difficult with both hands. When it clicks into place he helps unbuckle Rachel's sling, having to make even more effort not to flush now, stupidly, and heave her into his arms. She's not light at all, and flails miserably.

John helps ease her over, his hand still hovering on her head. It's impossible to see truly what his stoic, wiped expression is shielding, and not knowing is extremely frustrating. The one thing that's obvious is that, though he seems reluctant to leave Rachel, resting is the best solution.

'Sleep,' Sherlock tells him, smoothing his own hand over Rachel's skin, trying to sooth her. Maybe she can read the situation better than he can.

John hesitates, but it's obvious he's been put through the emotional wringer and is starting to buckle under the weight of it all. He nods slowly, without speaking, and drops his arm with a soft thud before exiting slowly. He climbs the stairs equally slowly, and Sherlock listens, not sure if he wants to hear something or not. What would he even hear? This is an unprecedented situation. Another chair slamming against the opposite wall maybe? A voice cracking? He hopes not.

Rachel is still crying, though a new pair of arms that, unpredictably, have become something of a third home seem to have calmed her slightly. It's still odd, beyond odd, Sherlock thinks, that he's turning into her permanent babysitter, and odder still that he doesn't mind in the slightest. Obviously it started for John's benefit, but Rachel really is a miniature person, with traits and mannerisms and a personality that he finds as fascinating as any criminal's. Admittedly, her personality is similar at the moment to most other babies he's met, but she's certainly different in that she got _him_ to drop The Work just to hold her.

He shushes her, and rocks gently side to side. Gradually, slowly, she gets even quieter, until she's only gargling, interspersed with tiny whimpers. She can't know, can't understand the gravity of the situation. She's only upset because it's a new building and bed, and because of the scorching heat. Honestly Sherlock's more shaken than her. Things shouldn't shock him, he works with shocking people, he _lives_ for shock-factor. But in the space of a day the biggest shock in a long while has uprooted him.

So they were fighting, so what? He would never have expected her to leave. He heard her say it, through her own sniffs, say "Mary Watson" was good enough for her. It's out of character isn't it, for her to suddenly let it go, after she was the one clinging so tightly?

Then again he thought it was out of character when she turned around in Magnusson's office. Maybe he doesn't know the half of it. 

Perhaps that's why even when Rachel is only sniffing so softly he still talks to her in his most comforting tone, the one he rarely uses, reserved for bloodied victims and delicate witnesses (if he's having a good day).

'She'll come back,' he murmurs to her, low and quiet, 'she won't be gone for good, she wouldn't do that. She loves you, and she loves your dad...' he falters, only for a second, and lowers a now silent Rachel into the crib. He carries on, even lower, even quieter, as if his shameful whispers might carry through the open window. 'She loves him as much as I do.'

 

 

He has to check, he has to. It's not that he thinks John's a liar, that's one word he'd never use, but everyone's wrong sometimes, and they have been fighting a lot. It's reasonable to check isn't it? Sherlock tells himself yes as he slips the keys from his friend's pocket and lets himself in to the house.

He walks softly, padding across the carpet like a cat, even though the house is supposedly empty. It's dusty, and Rachel's mess is predictably everywhere. There's one heart stopping cliché moment when he stands on a stuffed animal and it protests in a loud series of squawking electronic bleats while he desperately shushes it.

In the kitchen he finds the the sink filled empty jars and bowls, littered with used cutlery. He checks the dishwasher - full, everything clean and sparkling in the light of his phone torch. There's a full bottle of milk in the fridge and a new loaf of bread on the side. Apparently when leaving your husband it's socially acceptable to not leave the house in a total state.

A note is customary too, he supposes. _That's what people do, don't they? Leave a note_. It's resting on the side, just as John said, propped up against the microwave. White and luminous as the moon, it stares at Sherlock like some all-powerful goddess from a fantasy. It stares like a serene and silent challenge. He inhales sharply before drawing close enough to read it.

John's right, it does say 'sorry', but there's another line that makes the sliver pristine kitchen suddenly cold –

_'you shouldn't come after me.'_

You _shouldn't_

Not 'don't, not 'I don't want you to' - 'you shouldn't'. _She's still hanging on._

 

On the way home he fiddles with his inbox, thinking, considering. Texting Mycroft is only reserved for the most desperate occasions, and even then Sherlock hates hates _hates_ to do it, nothing makes a situation seem more hopeless, makes him seem more helpless. He walks all the way back to Baker Street, though it takes much longer than the Tube, thinking, considering. By the time he gets back to the door he's decided. This isn't about saving himself from humiliation; it’s not about him at all. He shoots a message:

_'Find Mary – SH'_

 

 

In the morning Sherlock does something almost unheard of, or at least an extreme rarity: he does a milk run.

The corner shop is busy on for a Wednesday morning and the sheer amount of information in the faces of fellow customers throws him. In the dairy isle it's the same. Normal milk is bad enough, it takes up far too many shelves considering, but milk for Rachel is another challenge altogether. Does she even drink milk like this, from a bottle? Should she still be breast feeding? He feels suddenly angry again: if Rachel still needs a mother, not just emotionally but for physical development, there's no way he can forgive Mary for walking out. For God's sake, they were only fighting after all. John let her off lying about her entire history, right down to her name, she could at least have tried to work it out, for Rachel's sake. At least. He's aware there's probably more to it that he doesn’t know about, but thinking that he doesn’t know is frustrating, and it's easier just to hate her.

He checks the labels on about fifteen different brands, all promising different ions and minerals. It's incredibly stressful and confusing, and it must be clear in his face, in his narrowed eyes and furrowed brow, because he's starting to attract a few glances. He read chemistry, shouldn't he know what a baby needs? Calcium, according to one brand; Iron, according to another. The only thing a few similar ones seem to agree on is that to drink it one ought to be seven months or over. Rachel is six months and ten days old – this'll have to do.

To Sherlock's initial relief, there are no cheery or snarky staff to talk to whilst he pays. He soon discovers however that the self-service machines are anything but smooth running, and ends up exasperated and irritated, thinking bitterly that he'd never live it down if John found out.

 

He even phones the surgery, telling them simply that John won't be there, and growling when the girl on the line is overly curious and suspicious about the voice she doesn't know and it's lack of proper excuse.

 

It might not be a huge gesture, but as he leaves at ten to answer a call from Lestrade, he's slightly proud of his efforts. He makes sure Rachel is delivered to Mrs Hudson – who adores her – and arranges the table with his hopefully helpful offerings before leaving.

When John finally pads downstairs bleary eyed and unhappy, he'll be greeted with two bottles of milk, one semi skimmed, one baby formula, and a note reading:

_'Gone to NSY. The surgery know you're not coming in. I bought milk.'_

He won't be able to help smiling.  



	10. We Can't Giggle, It's a Crime Scene

Nothing’s come up this week and as a consequence Sherlock is struggling to find anything worthwhile to do. Doing nothing whilst watching Rachel is always more entertaining than doing nothing without her, but still, his inbox is devoid of interest. He can’t smoke with a baby in the flat and he can’t smoke without it being obvious when John gets back from work to pick her up. Without a case he’s resorted to furthering his research database (though John reminds him constantly that no one reads it) by titrating hydrochloric acid against an unidentifiable liquid he found collecting at the bottom of the microwave that morning. Titrations aren’t the most fascinating of scientific procedures, but their dull repetitively and precision means something else to focus on that isn’t _Pepper Pig._

He sets up the clamp and burette and strips his jacket off. Long sleeves are obviously safer for working with chemicals, but to give him credit, it is August.

Clear at 30ml. Clear down to 20. Clear to 10. Pink. He writes down the approximation and sets up a repeat, already enjoying the monotony.

Clear, clear, clear, clear, clear, clear, pink. Record.

Clear, clear, clear…

Rachel has started whining and snuffling from her cot in the corner. He sighs and strides over, picking her up with confidence he’d never have predicted six months ago, despite her increase in size and weight.

‘What’s wrong?’ he asks her, knowing from numerous Google searches that children don’t generally begin speaking until they’re a year old. He lives in hope of Rachel beating the average.

She just looks at him, quieter now.

‘Are you hungry?’

She blinks.

‘Too hot?’

She pulls her small plush mouth into a gummy smile.

‘Alright then, come over here.’ He carries her to the kitchen and makes up a cup of water with a silicon sippy lid. One thing Rachel can do almost unassisted is sit up and drink for herself.

She sits cross legged on the kitchen table - which probably isn’t the safest place for her to be - and her legs, though functioning more effectively, are still rolled like stacks of fleshy tires. She definitely looks older, but it feels so cliché to comment on it. She sips in silence, looking proud of herself even when some of it dribbles down her purple stripy T-shirt. Sherlock smiles at her affectionately; these are the times people talk about when they say parenting is worth it.

He goes back to the burette, continuing from where he left off. Only now he’s got to keep one eye on Rachel whist the other watches the drips falling into the beaker.

Clear, clear, clear. One more drop and… pink.

The process itself is entirely silent, and the sunshine outside has meant a decrease in car traffic, so Rachel’s reaction is entirely audible and entirely amazing.

 

She’s laughing.

 

Actually laughing, like a person laughs. A high gurgling giggle that almost sounds like the cackling laughter of dolphins, but it’s so human. It’s a definite laugh.

It’s such a new and wondrous sound that the beaker Sherlock is swirling (for accuracy) slips out of his hand in surprise. He stares at her, wide eyed - only for a moment. The shock is replaced by a splitting grin. Rachel bangs her cup down, repeatedly, still laughing, for all the world like a chubby little sprite or imp or fairy with her musical laugh and her cheeks like Rubens apples and her eyes all bright and glistening. It makes Sherlock laugh too, really laugh, properly, like he hasn’t in an age.

Knowing full well that repetition is everything, he sets up the titration again, and lets the clear liquid in the burette drop swiftly, so it splashes into the beaker and turns the acid pink in seconds. Rachel splutters laughing again, and he laughs along with her, even as he has to stop her trying to crawl towards the equipment.

He uses up almost his whole supply of the mysterious substance within the next hour and he doesn’t consider it a waste.

 

When John comes back just past five, weary and reeking of antibacterial hand-wash and old magazines, Sherlock is itching to tell him, and when they sit down in their respective chairs and he brings Rachel with him, he rushes through the proceedings.

‘How was it?’ he asks, as hurried as possible without sounding unsympathetic. Really, John shouldn’t be working at all, but it turns out it’s difficult to get paid paternity leave when you can’t prove your wife isn’t staying at home all day with her full salary.

John sighs. ‘As awful as you would expect Thrush Awareness Week to be,’ he says grimly, ‘let’s just say I am now very much aware.’

‘Tea?’

‘Please.’

Sherlock hands Rachel over and goes dutifully to the kitchen, where his titration equipment is still set up, waiting for the next question.

‘So how was _your_ day?’ John asks eventually, as the kettle’s boiling, and he barely gets the last word out before he’s interrupted.

‘Rachel laughed.’

‘What?’ his head jerks round, ‘really?’

‘Yeah.’

He stands up, one hand cradling Rachel’s neck, looking at her incredulously. ‘Properly laughed?’

Sherlock nods, barely containing his foreseen but no less surprising excitement. ‘Properly.’

‘Wow,’ John breathes, now having reached the kitchen, still looking disbelievingly at Rachel. He slides his hand over her hair, grinning, then turns suddenly to Sherlock. ‘What did you do?

‘Well I was…’

‘You didn’t sing “Baby Got Back” did you?’

Sherlock blinks, not understanding the question if it’s a question, not getting the joke if it’s a joke.

John smirks at him. ‘Nothing, sorry. What was it?’

He frowns, miffed as always to be the butt of John’s poorly timed and poorly executed attempts at humour. He’ll probably be threatened and cajoled though whatever the reference was made to. He answers simply, ‘titration.’

John glances down at the table, ‘chemistry?’

‘Hydrochloric acid against that weird stuff in the microwave. It was the colour change she liked… The acid, it goes pink.’

‘Yeah, okay, I did those in Sixth Form,’ John says, nodding. He goes back to Rachel, smiling now, and takes up her still relatively tiny hand. ‘You like the colours, hmm?’ he quizzes her gently, hoiking her up onto his waist so her forehead rests against his cheek. ‘Colours are funny, are they?’

Rachel just grins her toothless grin (though she should be getting her first soon - it’s not like she doesn’t chew on anything) and babbles shyly.

‘I can do it again, maybe she’ll do it again,’ Sherlock suggests. It makes it sound like Rachel’s some performing animal, but her parent surely has more right to the treasure that is her laughter than he does. Whatever the vague clinical undertones, John nods enthusiastically at him, though his eyes never leave his daughter’s, so he sets about filling the beakers for what feels like the twentieth time today. Slowly, slower than before, wanting to savour the moment this time, to let John savour it too, he turns the tap, letting the mysterious liquid drip into the beaker below.

Drip, clear. Drip, clear. Clear, clear, clear…

A gentle ‘Rachel, watch this, look…’

The anticipation runs through the flat like a live wire, humming.

Clear, clear, clear…

‘She might not, I mean -’

‘Sherlock, just do it.’

‘Right.’

Clear, clear, clear…

Pink.

 

Rachel laughs.

 

She laughs the same as before, just as strange but strangely normal, just as loudly, just as wonderfully. Only this time it’s better, because it’s accompanied by John’s barely audible sharp inhalation, and then his own laugh, lower and shakier. He bounces her against his chest, his smile radiant enough to have banished all signs of weariness from his face. Rachel’s open, giggling mouth falls against his shirt collar and he kisses her forehead gently, still beaming. Watching them makes Sherlock smile too, and Rachel’s laugh is so infectious he joins in with that too, though quietly so as not to prevent the privilege of hearing father and daughter’s rising together. It’s the happiest John’s looked in a while, and the closest, the most instinctive he and Rachel have seemed since Mary left. Sherlock can’t help swelling slightly with the familiar pride and vicarious exultation from causing his happiness, hearing his laugh. _Is that pathetic?_ Maybe. It’s priceless though.

Eventually Rachel winds down, her sounds become quieter and further apart, and when she realises her father and babysitter are staring at her she buries her face in the former’s neck. It’s adorable - a word that should really be banned to stop it infecting Sherlock’s brain with its ordinariness. They stay like that, both sets of blue eyes shut, smiling softly, for as long as it takes for the phone to ring and the water in the kettle to go cold.

It’s Lestrade, something’s come up that’s proving predictably challenging to his inept team. Sherlock’s tempted to bark something irritable about it being a bad time, but he understands the importance of focusing his mind on anything except John and Rachel, the vitality of doing anything that’s not fawning over them. He asks for more details in an attempt to buy time.

‘Fine,’ he says somewhat reluctantly, after deciding grudgingly that Lestrade has made it sound like an interesting use of his time, ‘I’ll be there in ten.’

John taps him on the shoulder. He’s still holding Rachel, but he’s got her bag over one shoulder now, and he’s smiling upwards, not down, and nodding.  

‘ _We’ll_ be there in ten.’

  
  


 

For some reason, now that Rachel has learned to laugh, and has learned that the sound will, in turn, cause those around her to laugh with her, she refuses to stop.

They meet Lestrade at the gates, and even with his tired face grim set, he manages to start her off again, all shyness forgotten. There’s nothing wrong with helping make a friend smile John says, but even Sherlock knows there’s something wrong with sweeping around a dead body and 56 zip-lock bags of dope with a laughing baby trailing after him.

_We can’t giggle, it’s a crime scene._

And of course, she sets them off too, so it seems to the NSY team that their boss has invited a circus or a couple of high teenagers to help out. The looks they get are filthy, but still Rachel won’t stop giggling, and it’s stopping anyone from being able to concentrate on The Work but it’s such an amazing sound that they don’t really care. It’s like old times - the two of them ousted together, making inappropriately timed in-jokes and trying desperately to hide their laughs behind their hands. But now there’s Rachel too, fitting seamlessly into the picture, making it even brighter, were it possible. Despite the lack of intelligent thought and the wealth of feeling, it’s perfect.

But it doesn’t last long.

 

The universe clearly isn’t a fan of his; just when he’s smiling again, enjoying the moment, revelling in the nostalgia, embracing how it should be, whatever force governs the planet decides he needs breaking anew. The agent it sends takes a familiar form, one that lingers just in Sherlock’s peripheral vision, out of the sight of most of the NSY team, a shadow with a shape he knows and dreads: Mycroft.

His stomach sinks, then rises, then sinks again, like a hyperactive lift. He needs to know, of course he does, knowing is his mantra, but the prospect of knowing seriously dampens his spirits, drowns them even. John’s talking to Lestrade - he seems distracted enough, and he’s got Rachel. Sherlock slinks away unnoticed.

‘Well,’ he demands, shoving his hands deep in his pockets as he enters the shadows. ‘What’s the news?’

Mycroft raises an eyebrow, ‘What news?’

Sherlock tries his best not to gape, ‘What do you mean “what news”? Have you found her?’

‘Her as in Mary?’

‘Obviously.’

His brother gives him one of his serious faces that are only a tiny tweak away from a smirk. ‘I rather thought you’d be more focused on our Moriarty problem.’

Sherlock fiddles with the lining of his coat pocket that’s starting to fray; it’s like he’s been caught bunking classes or something, the way Mycroft is acting “not angry just disappointed”. Maybe three years ago he’d have been solely focused on Moriarty - or whoever is posing as him - but for some reason now all he cares about is Mary - or whoever is posing as her. He frowns, trying to convey authority, or at least equality. He repeats the question: ‘have you found her?’

Now it’s Mycroft’s turn to drop his gaze, which gives away the answer, and readjust both his footing and his stupid umbrella. He pauses for a moment that feels like another ice age, then says simply ‘no.’

It was obvious this answer was coming, but the predictability doesn’t stop Sherlock reacting. ‘No?!’ he hisses angrily, ‘What do you mean no?’

‘I mean we don’t know where she is.’

‘Of course you know!’ he almost shouts now, the proximity of the supposedly vanished woman’s husband and child forgotten in the heat. He simply can’t process the idea that Mycroft, the omnipresent more or less criminal mastermind has failed this basic and vital task. ‘You’ve got people, contacts…’ he throws his hands up, ‘you know everything!’

Mycroft only looks at him, with an expression he’d consider concern if it were on anyone else’s face. On an older brother’s it looks condescending. He shrugs.

Sherlock is utterly blank as to how this has happened. The one time, the one time he needed his brother most. The one most important time. It feels purposeful, vindictive even, and he's a liquid with no container, spreading and spreading trying to find somewhere, an explanation, to settle into. Perhaps if his own appeal wasn’t successful, one on another’s behalf might be. ‘What about John?’ he asks, quieter now, but only so as to try and mask his desperation. ‘And Rachel?’

Mycroft twirls the point of his umbrella against the pavement and tries something almost like comfort, though again his voice seems to mould it into a cruel joke. ‘They’ve got you now’

‘Not good enough.’ comes Sherlock’s instant reply, firing out of his mouth before he has a chance to think first, making him blanche. Then a silence where they’re both taking in the gravitas of what he just said. _Not good enough._ That’s not something he’s felt for a long time, and hasn’t admitted for even longer. He felt not good enough as a child, as a teenager, even at university and beyond. Not now. Now he is (or he’s supposed to be) an easy mask of arrogance that not even his brother can peel away. What he is, what he should be, is clever, intuitive, enigmatic, amazing, fantastic… _Not good enough._ He worries at his lower lip and goes on hurriedly ‘she's their wife and mother, she should be here.’

His brother’s eyebrow may have lowered once more, but he only draws breath to shrug again. ‘I don’t know what to tell you. She’s off the grid. Completely.’

He’s so unhelpful, such an expert at backhanded metaphorical slaps that it would cause anyone to explode. ‘Well then it’s not a very good grid, is it?!’ Sherlock rages at him. “Blind with fury” is such a cliché, but his eyes are prickling now which is making it half true. How difficult can it be, with people and computer systems and the whole damn EU under your control? It’s 2015, how can a woman just disappear? It’s not like he’s asking for much; he just wants answers, he _just_ wants…

What _does_ he want? The idea of Mary coming back makes his skin crawl almost as much as the idea of John forgiving her this second horrific error. But the idea of John being unhappy, of Rachel suffering as a result of this home in tatters… those are ideologies that just won't ever sit with him. The former especially - it never has, it never will, it jars his brain like a foreign object blocking the cogs from turning.  All he wants really is the choice between these two options, not to be sitting in the dark. It’s said by prisoners all the time that waiting for your punishment, just sitting, rotting in your cell, is worse than the torture itself. It’s the not knowing that’s really half of the process - it’s how they get you. Sherlock has to know where Mary is, regardless of his power to change the situation, because if you know what you’re in for you can have a plan of attack. He’s resigned to knowing now, there’s a heaviness in his still heaving chest.

‘You have to find her,’ he says, quietly.

There are only three people in the world who can make him feel like a child, and only one who can make him feel like a stupid one. Mycroft looks at him with what he’s fairly sure is purely pity. It makes him feel six years old again, begging his big brother not to tell mum and dad that he smashed the shed window, or sixteen with an abysmal attendance record, or nineteen and talking as quietly as possible to his "special friend" over the phone in the hall, or twenty-four with a convenient loose tile in his bathroom housing an “unhealthy” amount of illegal substances. He holds the gaze though, determined not to be reduced. It doesn’t work out in the end - Mycroft is a professional in making people small. He coughs, stares, and says, like a teacher to a small child ‘I’m not a quick fix, Sherlock…’

It’s the most like a child Sherlock’s felt in years. ‘I know that,’ he snaps.  

‘Do you?’

He pauses, cross, but struck dumb with more than offense. He didn’t expect a quick fix. Maybe he did. The question hangs like the top of a vast hourglass over his head, slowly draining sand on top of him, each grain a new possibility. Or maybe that’s just _feelings_. God, not that long ago he’d never have settled for mental equivocation like this, it’s far too normal. Sibling dynamics are complicated at the best of times, without dragging ex-assassins and ulterior motives and intolerable attractions into the mix.

In an effort to avoid his patronising brother’s stare, Sherlock looks back behind him, to his idea of a flawless tableau: a body, forensics, Lestrade, yellow tape, giggles, and John.

This isn’t about him and whatever metaphors best describe his own mental state. He sighs, and looks back again. He resorts once more to pleading, not for his own sake, but for the only person he’d ever consider pleading for. ‘You have to keep looking,’ he tells Mycroft, and when the only response he receives is an eye roll he goes one step further: ‘please.’

_Please fix it._

His tone must have said everything he’s too proud to. Mycroft nods, turns, vanishes down the lane.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the thing john's referencing is the bit in friends when rachel and ross sing 'baby got back' to make emma laugh.


	11. Who'd Want Me for a Flatmate?

It’s September, and getting into the miserable British winter people are more familiar with. In some ways the umbrellas and winter coats that are popping up on the street are reassuring. No one likes change. Especially Rachel, who is currently protesting loudly as John carries her up the stairs, desperate to stay with him and Sherlock in the living room, drinking warm milk and watching reruns like she has been the past hour.

‘It’s bed time,’ she’s told firmly, but she refuses to listen, wailing all the way to her bed.

Unsurprisingly, sleepless nights (like this one is bound to be) aren’t anyone's favourite part of being a parent (or a "when no one else is around" caregiver). But they’re not something you can just bail out of. In for the good times, in for the bad; however much the phrase makes Sherlock wrinkle his nose, it’s a pretty fair assessment of the situation. He _has_ been staying over for about a month. Maybe five weeks.

In fact, he’s been staying the night so regularly that he’s built up quite a nest of blankets, pillows, and cushions - and clearing the teacups and toys from the sofa to load it up like frosting a cake is routine.

Tonight is cold. Not deeply penetrating, bone chillingly cold, but enough to shiver, even after drinking excessive cups of hot liquid, and fetch an extra quilt. Sherlock goes to the airing cupboard, but, as he suspected, he’s cleaned it right out already. So instead he ties his dressing gown tighter and goes to check for hot water bottles. He knows full well that the weather will probably have decided to turn on a sixpence in three hours' time and he’ll be burning up, but by then he’ll most likely be up again with Rachel. There are no hot water bottles either, so he goes back to the sofa.

The nest is more of a heap at the moment, and takes some rearranging, but, hearing padding on the stairs, Sherlock knows he’s got time. The first night he might have felt uncomfortable, out of place, clutching his standard issue pillow and duvet like a life vest, but now it’s easier - he knows now where it all fits together. He knows now where he fits in the puzzle of this extraordinary household, and though it might not be where he envisions in the very most private corners of his mind, it’s still a significant piece. He appreciates his piece.

There’s a knock on the open living room door, and he turns round to give John a tired smile before clambering under his bedding concoction. Under the covers is still cool, even in a dressing gown, but he doesn’t let on, because he’s happy to even be here helping. Oh God that is so bloody _sappy_ ; get a _grip_.

‘Well, I’m turning in,’ John tells him, leaning against the door frame casually but still looking somewhat awkward.

‘Okay.’

‘Do you need anything? I know there aren’t any more blankets but-’

‘I’m fine,’ Sherlock assures him, but in the quiet that follows he can’t help tugging the duvet right up to under his chin as he lies back.

Said quiet lasts for a few measures, and even without looking Sherlock can tell John’s doing his shifty eyed, staring at the floor, lip licking thing he does when something’s off.

'Oh for God's sake,' he says eventually, breaking the silence, 'come on.'

Sherlock looks up from his pillow, bemused. Knowing something’s the matter and predicting what it is are entirely different things, and here he clearly didn’t manage to get the latter. 'What..?'

'It’s cold and I can't watch you sleep on the sofa in a bloody cocoon anymore.'

Is that an invitation? He should probably say no shouldn't he? If there's anything John's changed it’s that he knows now to try not to be selfish. 'I’m fine,' he tries, 'it's fine here honesty -'

John shakes his head. 'Come upstairs. You can share with me.' Well that's definitely an invitation. Share with me. Share a _bed_? 'Come on it’s too cold to stand here arguing.'

'Are you-'

'Yes, I'm sure,' he answers with a small amused smile, 'come on.' He jerks his head towards the stairs and his fingers twitch. To the untrained eye perhaps it would seem like the same nervous flexing that's been there as long as they both remember, but it's not, and Sherlock spots the difference immediately. This was an almost offer, an accidental almost offer, of a hand. He tries very hard to ignore it.

 

 

Upstairs the double bed looms like a bad omen, yet still radiates a charge that threatens to pull him in. It's most definitely a marriage bed; even if he hadn’t known that Sherlock would have figured it out from the covers and the two bedside tables either side. It's not his place, far from it, and it's large and comfortable-looking enough to scream of a partnership that doesn't include him. He still wants it though, that's as clear as the street light reflecting off the sleek covers. He lets a finger trail over the soft cotton that has the honour of keeping John company every single night. He wants it.

Neither of them speak, and as they look up at each other it's clear they're both starting to consider the awkward logistics of John's spur of the moment proposal. Obviously their discomfort stems from a more complicated history than just an immature fear of rumours, but they're two men and they're _British_ , so they'll always be an element of that.

Situations like this are a lot less common now, but the silence reminds Sherlock how much he always hated it. It's so irritatingly pedestrian and _boring_. “People might talk” so what? So what? Let them; who cares? It's boring. If they were anywhere else he'd say so, but here he's surrounded by constant reminders that he's a guest and that this invitation is a privilege he'd never have predicted. He nudges at the silence cautiously instead: 'So...'

'Well,' John replies, 'I always sleep on this side, so you can kip anywhere else.' He says it as casually as is humanly possible, so blasé it's over the top, but as he says it he's crossing to the chest-of-draws and gathering pyjamas to change in the bathroom.

Sherlock eyes the bed again, takes in the space, and when he says 'thank you' it's quiet enough to mean something.

Quiet enough too to make John see that, and to make him shrink back into a smile and a joke. 'As long as you don't steal the duvet,' he teases as he closes the bathroom door.

Silence falls like a settling blanket after it’s been shaken out, bar the muffled sounds from the bathroom - whispering cotton and the flicking of the switch.

Without John in the room, Sherlock's attention is inevitably dragged back to the bed, like as asteroid caught by the sheer gravity of a larger, more significant, more imposing object. He orbits now, walks slowly round to the other side, tracing the folds in the fabric with a careful fingertip. Not flattening the ridges, not pulling at the valleys, just resting his fingers it, not disturbing it.

It still doesn't feel entirely right, but if it isn't then he's never wanted to be wrong so much before. Friends don't do this, do they? Maybe they do - after all he's basing "what friends do" purely off his one friendship. John could be an outlier, not to be counted. Sherlock doubts it; John counts more than anyone. Well maybe friends share beds, say they do - what about friends who confess their love on airport runways?

He wonders if John thinks about it; _he_ thinks about it every day. The weight of the secret is gone, but now he has the intrusive thoughts to deal with instead - while he's working, sleeping, trying to do anything else. It's annoyingly constant. But John has Rachel and Mary on his mind, and it seems self-centred (something he only started not wanting to be relatively recently) to presume he has space for Sherlock and what was said on the tarmac as well.

And yet, this bed, that Sherlock's climbing into gingerly now, is, or was, John and Mary's, and the sheets that he's pulling over himself with reverence, so strangely like any others, are, or were, theirs. He's sitting, is going to sleep, where Mary sat, only a month ago, with a book or phone. They were husband and wife, and now he's taken the space she chose (who knows why) to vacate. Is it unreasonable to feel undertones of... something?

He doesn't get to question this for long though, because John comes back out of the bathroom and turns the light out. Only under the cover of the blackness does he lift the covers on his side of the bed. The lack of light or speech heightens Sherlock's already on edge senses, and he's glad now that it's dark because he's blushing and he suspects if John knew it would only get worse.

The first thing he notices as John actually joins him is that it's warm. In his bed at home it only gets warm after a full night, when he wakes up in the morning, before that it's only as warm as his bedroom, which in September isn't very. The difference is staggering - his own bed may be comfortable, but this is comforting, however awkward he may feel.

The next thing he notices is how small it seems now that both side by side. At 221 he call sprawl all over the expanse of mattress, if he did that now he'd end up with an armful of John.

Would that really be so bad?

 _Yes_.

Why though?

 _Obvious_.

He's lying straight as a pencil, when he would usually be stretching and squirming, for fear of crossing a line, staring at the ceiling in the quiet, listening to John's breathing and the outside street (mainly the former). There's a sense of déjà vu of course, but that was his bed, which he's never shared, and emotions were running high after confessions and a goodbye and the return of both friends and enemies. This is more thought out and therefore there are no excuses (he’s not entirely sure what he would have to excuse specifically and doesn't want to let his brain go there). It's awkward too, one of his least favourite feelings, because they're not exhausted and defeated enough to just collapse asleep; they're going to have to lie here like this for as long as it takes.

Moving his limbs may be out of the question but after five minutes or so he dares to tilt his head slightly on the pillow. His curls whisper against the cotton, giving him away, but either John's asleep or doesn't care. With just this slight change of angle he can watch his friend’s breathing, see his eyelashes fluttering heavily against his skin, whilst being subtle enough not to look leering.

And he’s hit with it.

Cold, dull aching, because he wants so desperately to be here on different terms and he really really shouldn’t. Not at all, not still. It’s too much, and he really really should look away now if he wants to go back to pretending he’s a sociopath who couldn’t care less. He doesn’t. He keeps looking, drinking in the sight that feels unearned, wrong, with shameful abandon like it's an oasis. The pain throbs. It feels real enough to leave a bruise.

Minutes creep by, and while the initial discomfort might be fading, it’s displaced by the aching that he wants to believe isn’t real, so it’s hardly an improvement. More minutes, and Sherlock finally finally shifts his gaze, so he’s looking up at the ceiling once more. Only now he’s thinking about Mary again - about she would have looked up at this exact spot on the ceiling, counting the lines perhaps, or the little bubbles in the paint as he is now. Though, he supposes, on a cold night like this the happy couple (he’d presumed) would have been huddled together, not separate and twitchy. That would be infinitely preferable. Impossible though.

 

Yet more minutes, it must have been half an hour, and the tension is dissipating like a cloud of gas, leaving less cringing and more comforting sleepiness - less curling toes and more deep breathing. Just when Sherlock’s eyelids are starting to feel heavy, just when he’s comfortable and warm enough to sleep (providing he can keep his mental defences up - a more difficult task than it has been in the past), John’s voice sounds in the silent dark - so quietly he could have been talking in his sleep.

‘I’ve been thinking.’

It sounds serious, and another thing that definitely has a place on the list of things he’s taught Sherlock, it’s that serious conversations aren’t easy, and can be made easier with humour; ‘Finally.’

A short exhalation from the pillow next to him makes it clear his dig was appreciated, if only in making them both a little less anxious - making this a little less unfamiliar. Still, it working has no effect on John’s predictably telling him to shut up, before going gingerly on. ‘I've been thinking,’ he continues, ‘that,’ he pauses, ‘all your stuff is here…’ he lets the thought hang.

‘Oh,’ Sherlock says, and instantly rolls his eyes under the cover of darkness at how dejected he sounds. _That wasn’t so awful. Really._ ‘I can move it if it’s-'

'No it's fine I just mean…’ another pause, ‘I mean you're here a lot, you're here most nights…’

'Oh,’ he says again, trying harder this time to keep his voice casual. _Well that was slightly worse. But still fine. Really._ ‘I don't have to be,’ he rushes on, ‘I just-' _thought you wanted me here._

'That’s not what I'm getting at,’ John interrupts him, with his amused yet exasperated voice he uses when he thinks Sherlock’s being slow. Sherlock glares at the ceiling, bitter and confused, but John goes swiftly on - years of friendship making it obvious to him when what he’d call “a strop” is looming. ‘I was just thinking that, I mean with you spending so much time here you might as well…’ he stops again, as if still clinging to the hope that Sherlock will fill in the gaps himself, and no one has to do any of the “sort of stuff” they find difficult. Again, the thought hangs, dangles - tantalising, inspiring the flickering type of energy you in your stomach you can never quite identify as nervousness or excitement. He sighs into the silence: ‘move in.’

‘Oh.’ _Why is the ceiling spinning?_ ‘Oh.’

‘I mean,’ John tries to clarify hurriedly, probably sensing Deja vu - it’s not like a minimalist response is unfamiliar - ‘it would half your rent, and you wouldn’t have to go back and forth…’ he does actually sound hopeful, like he actually wants it to happen - the logical reasons he’s presenting, though persuasive, aren’t his reasons for asking. _What are then?_

He sounds too like he’s going to say more, like he’s lain in the darkness thinking of a whole host of reasons, making a mental list. Sherlock doesn’t really care about the list, however long it took, he cuts John off with the only reason that matters to him: ‘You want me to move in?’

‘I don't _want_ you to,’ John answers and Sherlock frowns at himself for reading too much into things - it’s not like he had any visible clues with his eyes still resolutely not turning to his right - and caring too much, but then John’s correcting himself quickly, and there’s a shred of light, maybe even dignity. ‘I mean I don't mind…’

 _I don’t mind._ A drunken breathy giggle and a hand on his knee that had no reason but every right and even more invitation to be there. Even just the words make the bed feel even warmer.

‘… but I thought maybe we would both…’ pause. What? Sherlock asks him silently, we would both what? ‘Never mind…’ and then they’re back to square one: embarrassment and nervous energy and words unspoken. John rolls over onto his side, facing the wall rather than the ceiling or the other side of the bed or the person lying there that’s not his wife.

_Thought we would both what?_

_Want to live together again?_

_**Miss** living with each other?_

John misses him? Misses _him_? Misses violin concertos at 2am, body parts with food, madmen and killers and practically sleepwalking from attending “sort of book events”? Misses noise and bickering and never having a date? Sherlock doubts it. And even if he did there’s no way it’s reciprocated on the same level. There’s no way John misses him like it’s working out vice versa. There’s no way John misses him as much as he misses noise and bickering and sabotaging dates, as much as the ridiculous jumpers and homelier smell, as much as crap telly and takeaway on a weekday night, as much as midnight chases with someone by his side, as much as never being quite as bored. No way.

The list hurts. Missing someone hurts. Sherlock rolls over too, so they’re back to back with a full two feet of space between them, his hand practically hanging off the mattress.

Don’t get involved he tells himself over and over, like counting sheep, until he sleeps.

 

  
The next morning Sherlock wakes up stronger. He doesn’t linger, not for a second, in the pink early September glow of the morning, to savour waking up where he does. He’s not a masochist, contrary to recent evidence, and he’s not stupid enough to stay. The alarm goes off in twelve minutes, and he knows better to subject them both to the discomfort of waking up together, however little they’ve drifted together during the night. He opens his eyes, throws back the covers, goes to the bathroom, in one smooth fluid motion, without even pausing to take in the cooing pigeons, or the smell of fresh dampness Autumnal London so perfectly provides, or the lack of wailing baby, or the warmth of the covers and the space under them, or John’s gentle snoring. Not one second. None of it.

Instead he tiptoes down the stairs, pausing only to peek in on Rachel, who, miraculously, is still asleep. It’s almost enough to make him worry, because she should really have cried in the night for something; it’s bound to be a blessing in disguise. Still, he leaves her sleeping - he’ll come up again if she needs him.

Oddly, he feels well rested; it doesn’t make sense considering his rocky start to what he assumed would be a restless slumber. But no - now he thinks about it, the night was peaceful, undisturbed. Rachel didn’t cry, he wasn’t up at some awful early hour, and John, not that Sherlock was looking, seemed completely unperturbed. In all their time as friends u sound any more falsely chipper.

‘You’re making breakfast?’ comes the inevitable incredulous reply.

‘We’ve been through this before.’

John sets Rachel down in her high chair and throws his hands up. ‘Alright,’ he says, and Sherlock’s relieved to see he’s smiling as he pulls as plate towards him, ‘am I allowed to ask what’s the occasion?’

‘No occasion.’ Sherlock promises, sliding him the coffee pot and Rachel a cup of water. Then he wonders if he was supposed to say yes - if the occasion was supposed to be his moving in. _No, we agreed you made that up._

_I do not “make things up”._

_You exaggerate things. You’re not a puzzle solver, you’re a drama queen._

He sits down, and sneaks his trademark sideways glances as he actually eats breakfast with father and daughter, like a family. After a pause he risks an “occasion”. ‘You slept well last night, you haven’t for a while.’

John pauses with a fork halfway to his mouth, crinkles his nose (Sherlock knows better than to describe the movement as “endearing”), blinks, and carries on without answering.

 

  
The rest of the morning carries on fairly regularly - except that Rachel’s staying with Mrs Hudson today (much to her excitement, and, for want of a better word, cooing), because Lestrade has been reminding Sherlock every day this week that he’s got a paperwork slot to help with. They say goodbye like friends, but the way they part - one to work, one carrying baby in basket - is most definitely not like friends. Sherlock doesn’t really care what people in general think about most things, but he wonders now what John’s neighbours think, what with the woman they saw carrying this baby no longer strolling the streets, what with some man come out of nowhere to supposedly take her place.

At NSY, with his mind simultaneously numb with the unadulterated boredom and still speeding, recalling the events of the last twenty-four hours, a single buzz of his mobile, which he’s been tapping on the desk for the past twenty-four minutes, pulls him out of his reverie in a way Lestrade’s nagging could never:

_“I have a seven month old daughter who takes up the second bedroom. Sometimes I don’t sleep well or have to work ungodly hours. I own a handgun and ‘too many’ jumpers. Would this be a problem? Potential house mates should know the worst about each other…”_

 

 


	12. He Will Take The Room Upstairs

When Mrs Hudson hears he’s thinking about moving out she looks like she wants to cry, and it takes Sherlock a second to work out if she’s happy or sad.

‘Really?’ she asks, her voice fragile, ‘you’re going?’

‘I don’t know,’ he says, climbing the stairs so he doesn't have to face making a decision in front of her. ‘Maybe.’

She catches the edge of his coat to stop him. The look on her face is confusion, disbelief and shock. ‘”Maybe”?’ she repeats incredulously, ‘what do you mean “maybe”? Sherlock, you have to.’

‘I don’t have to do anything…’ he tries, but not particularly hard, leaving her fingers going white against his coat.

‘Of course you do.’

‘You’re not my mother.’

‘No, I’m not,’ she climbs onto the stairs so she’s only a step below him, and gingerly takes his collar in both hands, flattening it down. ‘But I’m not completely stupid. You’re miserable when you’re here. You should move over there. You know you should.’

‘Maybe…’

 

He does move in. At the end of another good fortnight of thinking. Of thinking is it really worth the feeling out of place for the guilty pleasure of being involved, of thinking that he’s never really liked massive changes and he’s lived in Baker Street for years, of thinking does he really want to live in the house he still thinks of as John and Mary’s. In the end though Mrs Hudson is right, damn her. He’s miserable alone in the flat, and it doesn't feel like the old days at all, which would be the ideal situation. It's not going to be like that again, realistically. And there's no way John and Rachel can come and live with him. She's going to grow up and need space, and schools, and a garden to run around in. She needs a suburb really, not the handy Jubilee line. If he wants to be a part of that - and most of the fortnight is working up to admitting he does - he’s got to move in with them.

Sentiment is awful and everything, but he still finds himself saying goodbye to the flat like it’s a person. Standing in the centre of it with a single cardboard box in his arms, full of books and papers and his microscope, and a suitcase at his feet, looking round the living room that's gone from his to theirs to his again to no one's. He didn't chose the wallpaper, and he never liked it, but now he almost thinks he’ll miss it. He’ll miss the dust, the stains, the peeling paint, the bullet holes, the torn papers, and being right in the centre. But, loath to admit it, he knows full well he won't miss it as much as he misses John and Rachel.

So, he turns from the flat, turns from Mrs Hudson, after she hugged him so tight he thought his bones would splinter, and turns from the front door to look forward through the taxi’s windshield, after waving to her of course.

 

 

It couldn't have been easier, in the end, moving in. A load of his stuff is already there, and even before he's arrived John's been shoving other things out to clear more room. He gets a full chest of drawers, two coat hangers in the hall, and shelves in the fridge, bathroom cabinet and bookcases. John’s even shocked he didn't bring any furniture with him, and considering the house was never cluttered, and some of Mary’s touches have been tossed out (into the skip two streets away Sherlock knows, but isn't going to say anything about it), sends him back for their chairs. They spend a few days making changes, rearranging. Now the house feels like it's _theirs -_ it feels almost cosy, and it definitely feels permanent. Except for the bed situation.

There's still only one bed in the house, and only two bedrooms. Rachel’s in one, and her parents were sharing the other. That one night might have been nice in a masochistic kind of way, but it can't go on forever. John swears they’ll make time to go to Ikea and fix something up, promises that Rachel can move, or another bed can fit in the larger bedroom, or the living room, or even in the hall - ‘Wherever you want, it’s all fine.’ But they just sort of don’t get round to it. And even though they’re forced to sleep at the complete opposite poles, making it as platonic as it can possibly get, sharing the bed just seems like the best solution. By the end of September they've both offered to sleep on the floor more than once, and they've both refused to let each other. No one sleeps badly anymore - well not for any non-Rachel related reason (she’s teething) - so it works. There's no one to say it’s weird or that they're going far too far, so they sort of ignore the fact that it is, that they are, and carry on uninterrupted. More and more like a couple every day without changing anything.

 

 

One night at the start of November, wrapped in extra layers, hugging Rachel to his chest in his old chair, John says randomly ‘You know, you’re insufferable, and insane, and everything. But honestly you're the best friend anyone could ask for.’ He pauses, studying Rachel’s fingernails. ‘Not a lot of people would do this. So thanks. For being one of them.’

The three seconds before Sherlock can say anything are far too emotional by their standards - things like this rarely come out in words. It's forced, like the confession's been wrung out, and yet it's truly honest without a hint of bitterness or reluctance, and it's the honesty that means he’s startled enough for it to take three seconds. Three seconds for him to come back to earth and decide on an answer. It’s such a crazily amazing affirmation that he’s rendered weightless. In the end he can only manage ‘anytime'. 

 

The month may have started well, but the fifth brings a bad night. The screaming and laughing from parties remind them both of the fire that year, of the panic, the muffled ‘oh my God’, the yells and smell of singeing leather, the coughing up lung-fulls of smoke. Then there’s the absence of Mary’s presence, which makes no one happy. Add that to the fireworks, which keep both Rachel and John up all night for very different reasons, and it’s hardly a good weekend.

 

It continues in a similar fashion: the biggest news story of the month is a hit. Or at least the feds who are responsible for talking to the press think it could be a hit - so therefore the public in general is convinced. The victim is a firefighter and drug mule from the centre of Portugal, seemingly connected with no one of importance, which is really the whole story, and is as much as Sherlock knows about it. Lestrade, of course, knows nothing, and Mycroft’s beloved “intelligence” come back empty handed too. Obviously there’s hundreds of assassins out there. No one knows who the perpetrator is, and no one can prove it’s Mary - or AGRA rather. Then again no can prove it’s not. Sherlock doesn't say anything about it while the story is playing, but the following day he catches John on hold with Revenue and Customs (again).

Sorting out paying your taxes individually rather than as a couple has proven difficult to do so far, as nothing comes up when they search Mary’s name in their apparently extensive, rigorous database. Overhearing snippets of the conversation makes it pretty clear to Sherlock that the government should fire whoever is on the other end of the line: 

‘No I am still married, but we’re not living together or sharing a bank account.’

‘No I don't have her contact details.’

‘I don't know where she is.’

‘Really, I don't know where she is. At all.’

‘Her middle name’s Elizabeth if that helps…’

‘Yes, I’ve actually called three times before.’

 

 

 

Meanwhile, Rachel is growing up at a frankly alarming rate. Her first tooth finally comes through, much to the relief of probably everyone on their street, after weeks of screaming and chewing and screaming again. It’s lucky - the supply of calming TV was dwindling, and Sherlock doesn't know any lullabies for violin. He makes a mental note to learn some for the next tooth.

As well as gappy smiles, she’s crawling more. Of course, she’s been moving around for a while, but now she seems more confident, like she’s figured the world out; she’s on a mission to explore the whole house as soon as whoever is supposed to be watching her turns his back. Numerous times she’s almost fallen - down the stairs, off the counter top, out of chairs, out of her cot. She's like a floppy sack of energy, always wanting to be on the move, always wanting to be doing something. She's close to walking too, can stand now, gripping the table leg or the buggy or John's outstretched fingers. With encouragement, she’ll take a few fragile steps, but since it takes far too much effort to move less than a metre, she's more enthusiastic about crawling. She stands up for visitors though, Lestrade, Molly, Mrs Hudson. She loves showing off and making people praise her, which John always comments pointedly is probably something she's picked up through observation,  rather than inherited genetically. They all love her, and visit more and more through the winter, wanting to hear the latest news, and, in the women’s cases, rock her back and forth (Lestrade tried once more after the disastrous party, but since he nearly dropped her after a comment of ‘God, she looks like her mum’ earned him a cold stare from Sherlock and an awkward silence, he sort of lost confidence).

 

 

‘It’s a shame there probably won’t be snow this year,’ John says one evening that's particularly cold, holding the curtain with one and and Rachel in the other. ‘I bet she’d love it.’

It’s true, Rachel is excited by any extreme weather - be it rare sun or, more common recently, cloud and rain. She likes puddles best, always claps when the buggy splashes through them, and she’d probably love snow. Flaky, dry, powdery snow like they had a few years back. That would be best - it makes snowmen with integral structure, and snowballs that don’t spatter before impact.

‘Well it might snow,’ Sherlock tries.

‘Probably not.’

‘It might.’

John raises an eyebrow. ‘When did you get so optimistic?’ Rachel whines.

Sherlock shrugs, going to the fridge for her dinner. ‘It might.’

 

 

 

December means only one thing to most people, but however hard his parents tried, past Mycroft’s twelfth birthday, they had never been able to get Sherlock excited about it. If his brother said it was intellectually beneath _him_ , then he would never have let himself enjoy it, despite his childhood love of paper hats and Christmas tree smell and colourful ribbons round Redbeard’s neck. Eventually he’d been pretending so long not to like it that it became real, and now, in 2015, he only thinks of Christmas as a particularly cold and annoying part of the year. Mostly. Maybe the year of The Woman he had felt slightly more festive, but that was only because John insisted on trying, and then again probably only because he had a date.

This year though it's different again, and again it's because of John trying. Maybe memories of last year were the haunting cause, or maybe he was just keen for Rachel to experience the whole shebang, but either way he returns from the surgery halfway through December lugging a cardboard box that's overflowing with tinsel and green leaves and baubles, and when Sherlock asks him what he’s doing he just says ‘ _we_ are doing Christmas.’

And so the whole house is hung with decorations - half of which are second hand and cracked - and a small tree is stood haphazardly in the corner like the Leaning Tower of Pisa, and tinsel is wrapped around the banister, and they even go out down the road looking to cut to cut boughs of holly and mistletoe and return with red noses and a pathetically small harvest.

But Rachel loves it. She loves the colours, the textures, the hunting and gathering. She loves losing the end of the Sellotape, and getting pricked by the needles of their spiny tree, and buskers singing carols at her on the Tube. She laughs and points and claps and babbles anything that sounds remotely like words, trying to join in with anything and everything. She crawls even more, flops up the stairs, looking for anything Christmassy she can lay her developing hands on. She lives for each morning when they come together to open the advent calendar.

Christmas Day itself is brilliant, because no one is ever working or busy on Christmas Day, and no one expects anything of anyone except that they eat a whole lot and watch the Queen's Speech, both of which all three of them can manage. They don’t really do presents, except Rachel, who gets holly berries tucked into her now definitely mousy gold hair and a knitted hat and mittens, as well as a boxset of _Pepper Pig._

 _'_ I didn't even know they made boxsets of kids shows,’ John muses over mulled wine and Rachel’s mess.

‘Neither did I, I just thought she’d want a box to rip the paper off.’

In the evening they have carols on violin and a roaring fire and _Doctor Who_ , which is probably too scary for a (nearly) one year old, but she barely understands what's going on. In fact, she's almost asleep by the time they reach the scary plot twist (‘it's only scary how obvious it was,’ Sherlock comments flippantly), curled into John’s chest with wrapping paper shreds still clutched in her tiny hands.

The routine is exactly the same after that, except they say ‘Merry Christmas’ instead of ‘goodnight.’

 

 

 

Rachel’s birthday is pretty special too, which is quite an achievement considering she has no clue what’s going on and it’s early January - the weather is as dismal as the general public. She giggles over and over as she gets to tear yet more paper, and claps wildly when she blows out her single candle in one breath. She can’t quite say candle, but she’s getting there.

Her birthday is also when John starts filming. Not for the blog, which is what Sherlock originally suspected, but ‘just for us.’ He films almost everything, the whole day, and it's only near the end that Sherlock realises this has meant he's not actually in any of the footage himself. Thinking that a parent would probably rather have video evidence of them with their child, rather than of their friend in a lopsided party hat, he asks ‘Do you want me to film it?’ as John hovers over him with a piece of cake and the record button flashing, but he's only told:

‘It’s fine.’

Rachel unwrapping his gift is also caught on video, and he’d be lying if he said he hadn’t played it back once or twice. It’s embarrassing to watch back now really, because it’s obvious on camera how grossly devoted he is, both to the child in his lap and the disembodied but familiar voice from off screen. Rachel tries her hardest to break his Sellotape Fort Knox, but in the end he helps her, revealing a box which, from out of the frame, John identifies as ‘shoes?’

‘Wellies,’ Sherlock elaborates, and through the microphone he sounds more sheepish than he remembers. ‘In case we have another “wild spring” and she wants to walk through some puddles.’ He opens the box, and Rachel practically coos in delight at her present - which is indeed a pair of wellies, shining new, and smelling of fresh rubber (though the camera didn't pick that up). Probably the most notable thing about them is that the colour - they’re striped a bold black and yellow like a bumble bee. There’s a matching hat under a layer of tissue paper. Here the camera goes off, which is perhaps a shame, perhaps lucky, as what happened after was John joining them on the floor to stare at him in disbelief, then smile with that soft wonderment that's usually just for Rachel, before taking the wellies out of the box and coaxing her into trying them on. She does, and after a minute or so he manages to persuade her upright, and she even toddles a few steps around in them. It makes John smiles a smile that goes instantly into Sherlock's top ten, and earns her a nickname that sticks as firmly as the image of a deerstalker in the public’s mind: ‘Look at you go, Bee.’

 

 

 

January is also Sherlock’s birthday month, and his is only a few days after Rachel’s. Again, it's not a time of year he tends to get excited about or big up - and it’s only a call from his parents that makes the day in anyway different.

John walks in on him trying to get them to hang up ('No I'm not doing anything special’ … ‘Because I have other things to do’ … ‘It's really not that important, it's just a day’ … ‘I answered, didn’t I?’) and says, after he’s eventually managed it, ‘you didn't tell me it was today.’

‘It’s the same day every year,’ he answers, somewhat bitterly.

‘True. I guess it’s my fault I forgot.’

‘No, no, there’s more important things on…’

As if to illustrate his point he moves a few cups from the sideboard to a cupboard, something he did for the first time only a few weeks ago which causes John's next statement to sound far too hard, juxtaposed to the lightly clinking porcelain. ‘You were going to be away on your birthday,’ he says with heavy realisation, ‘wherever it was Mycroft was shipping you off to. You were going to be there.’

Sherlock closes the cupboard, attempts to downplay it. ‘I suppose so.’

John moves wordlessly from the kitchen doorway, stacks a few clean plates from the dishwasher, places them on the shelf up by Sherlock's shoulder. Then, once they're side by side he murmurs ‘I didn’t call.’

‘I don’t care.’ The detective (not that he's solved anything high profile in weeks) replies hurriedly, and almost entirely truthfully.

‘We could go out, if you want,’ John suggests, ‘get a babysitter.’

But his attempts at redemption are flattened by a single head shake and a small smile. ‘Birthdays aren't that important.’  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> shspesh tho... omg they literally went and made the tarmac scene even more painful and rendering my version incomplete as well lol how rude of them :'O


	13. People Might Talk

Since Rachel's first birthday, Sherlock's been brainstorming ways to get her to talk. John's strategy is simply repeating everything he says to her twice, in the hopes she'll say it back. She's come quite close in fairness, her sounds are getting more and more similar to the words thrown optimistically in her direction. She knows what things are too, and will repeat sounds she remembers in place of actually naming whatever it happens to be. but still she hasn't managed to successfully imitate a whole word, not in the sense that it would recognisable to the general public.

Her first word drops like a bombshell on an astonishingly average day. It’s a minuscule occurrence that shatters the Earth.

All through the afternoon she’s sat up on the table at Bart's like any other, she’s giggled in Molly’s arms and clapped happily as Lestrade takes her aside - ‘seriously Sherlock you can’t let a baby look at corpses, even if she doesn’t know what they are’. Sherlock gets nothing from her when he asks routinely ‘do you want a drink? yes? can you say "yes"?’ and ‘sit here okay? "okay"?’ and even ambitiously ‘it’s poisonous, you can’t touch it. Can you say "poisonous"?’. And yet, outside, as they’re leaving, wrapped up in her hat and mittens and wellies, Rachel says something,  _ says _ something, and it forces them all into suddenly stunned silence.

‘Back home?’ Lestrade asks on the pavement outside, ‘cab or Tube?’

Molly, still cradling Rachel (she has possibly the biggest soft spot of them all for her) suggests ‘we could split one?’

Sherlock nods to her, stretches an arm out into the road, calls ‘taxi!’ to the nearest black vehicle. It’s all pedestrian, to be expected, dull.

Then Rachel says ‘taxi’. And the silence lasts at least five seconds as the cab approaches the pavement. 

Molly gasps, her mouth open with the corners pulling upwards in a shocked smile. Lestrade actually claps a hand over his mouth in amazement. Sherlock drops his arm and cool expression, takes Rachel from Molly’s arms into his own unsteady ones and holds her up above his head as if offering her to some deity. ‘What did you say?’ he asks her, incredulous, his voice weaker than usual. ‘Did you just say "taxi"?’

‘Taxi,’ Rachel repeats again, as if it’s nothing, as if she’s been speaking her whole life, though truly it sounds more like "tacky" or "tack-sea". Her delicate flaxen eyebrows pull into a frown - she looks honestly confused by all the attention, by the wondrous gazes shooting her way, by the way Sherlock’s face is shining like a beacon below hers.

‘Crikey,’ Lestrade breathes as the cab pulls up to the curb and Sherlock hugs Rachel close to his chest, murmuring ‘taxi’ at her again and again, as if she'll forget. Molly is watching him fondly too he knows, but at the moment he’s ignoring everyone but Rachel, and if he wasn’t a scientist or a logician he’d believe that he could actually physically feel the love for her in his veins, capillaries, tissue fluid. He can feel the serotonin and dopamine and oxytocin anyway, and that’s scientific. It’s a wonder he feels so light with all that going on .

‘Change of plans,’ he tells Molly, shaking his head slightly to try and stay grounded, ‘This is my cab, you get the next one, I’m not going home.’

‘Where are you going?’ she calls back, but he’s already disappeared into the taxi, and doesn’t answer. She doesn't need to know right now. There’s only one thing in his head right now.

He gives the driver John’s work address and smiles in earnest in the privacy of the back seat.

  
  


 

When the cab pulls up at the clinic he practically dives out, thrusting a tenner over and muttering something that hopefully sounded like ‘keep the change’ before dashing for the doors, coat flapping in his slipstream.

‘Where's John?’ he demands of the women on reception breathlessly, ‘John Watson.'

‘Do you have an appointment?’

He shakes his head irritably, needing her to understand, not at all in the mood to waste time. ‘I’m not a patient I’m.... I’m babysitting.’ he nods to Rachel: ‘She’s his.’

She raises an eyebrow.

‘It’s important,’ he snaps, then sucks in a slow breath. ‘Please.’ he says.  _ His daughter just said her first word. His daughter just said her first word and it happens to be one with huge significance to us. It’s important. _

Rachel makes an excitable sound and reaches for the pen chained to the reception desk with her grabby chubby fingers. The woman smiles, and for a second Sherlock wonders if having a baby around could be useful in his work as well as surprisingly enjoyable.

‘He’s through there I think,' the woman sighs, gesturing through a door labeled "staff", ‘but I think he's talking to the Director about -’

Sherlock doesn't stay to find out what the Director is wasting John’s time with. He cuts her off with a curt ‘thanks’ and almost takes the door down in his hurry.

  
  


The staff room is small and basic: a few old sofas, a coffee machine and cupboards of cups, a watercooler. John is indeed talking to a tall broad woman Sherlock assumes is the Director, he looks unamused and desperate to get home, and the residue of pleading in his exhausted eyes makes it clear they’ve been talking about his hours again, but as Sherlock almost stumbles into the room his head snaps round and his expression turns to one of shock and worry.

‘Sherlock? What're you... what’s wrong?’

‘Nothing,' Sherlock reassures him, practically panting, ‘I just... Rachel said...’

‘Said?’ he asks, approaching swiftly with widened eyes and stroking Rachel's hair. ‘She said something? Like... properly?’

Sherlock nods, smiling a closed mouth smile that lets John and Rachel keep the spotlight.

In the awed silence that follows the Director tries to interrupt them with a sentimental ‘is this your little girl then?’. Sherlock wants to whirl around and spit something along the lines of "yes, and the person who’s been helping care for her for nearly six months because you won’t believe his wife’s gone". He doesn’t, but he’s glad that John doesn’t acknowledge her input either, instead breathing a soft ‘oh my God’ and lifting Rachel into his arms. ‘What? What did she say?’

The pause goes on, and the Director finally seems to cotton on to the not so subtle pointed look Sherlock’s giving her. ‘I’ll leave you two to it for a second then,’ she says, heading for the door with a smile that’s definitely implying something. The implications have been omnipresent since the start, and they don’t really bother Sherlock that much, but it irritates him now because it’s coming from the woman who thinks Mary’s still on maternity leave, and surely that means she thinks he’s some kind of homewrecker, that he would selfish enough to... Whatever, once the door closes behind her shakes her out of his head, returning to his previous urgency that’s only a little shyer now. 

‘"Taxi",’ he says, with a special effort to say the word as clearly and correctly as he can so as to truly communicate the essential significance of the word. The contrast between his diction and Rachel's is the most beautiful canyon ever discovered. 

John just blinks at him. ‘"Taxi"?’

He nods. 'Rachel,' he tries, 'Rachel, how did we get here?’ 

Rachel just looks at him, then at her dad, then back to him, sticks a knuckle in her mouth. 

‘Bee, can you say "taxi"?’ John asks her straightforwardly, masking his obvious excitement and impatience almost perfectly. 

There's another pause. Then, over the scraping of chairs and the gurgling of a water cooler, they both try again at the same time, and break into smiles upon meeting each other's eyes. Parenting is worth it, Sherlock decides for the fifth time that fortnight. 

The sixth time is four seconds later when Rachel, never able to be left out of anything she suspects could be fun, joins in the smiles and repeats ‘taxi,’ back to them. She’s still unsure of the word, of whether the sounds rolling of her tiny tongue are quite what they should be, but as John sucks in a sharp breath, and looks at her with as much love as her eyes had held in that picture that feels like centuries ago, and kisses the top of her head with visibly shaking lips, she grows more confident. Making people laugh so she can laugh seems to have become her mission in her short life so far, and she repeats the wondrous word again and again until she’s shaking too, with giggles. Until they all are. 

Her first word is ‘taxi’, and it’s so blatant and ridiculously romantic. It’s a connection, as sturdy and obvious as Tower Bridge, between the easy, beautiful past, and the beautiful challenge of now. Sherlock can’t help thinking about them, the two of the, John and him, with a connection like this. This isn't one piece of red string on a map on the wall, it’s a whole ball’s worth of string, and there are only two pictures to connect. It’s the easiest dot to dot in the world, and God if doesn't half overwhelm him. Maybe this could happen after all. Maybe he can let himself think that now. He’s never loved Rachel more. 

Then John pulls him into a logistically awkward hug, with a hand on the back of his neck that hasn't been there for eternities, so that the three of them are haphazardly sandwiched together, clinging to each other like limpets. Rachel giggles in the folds of his coat. He changes his mind; this is the moment he’s loved her most.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> also disclaimer: i dont babysit or have a baby sibling or anything so this is all from google and creative license. if u think its unrealistic ur probably right but.... its cute so :P


	14. We Need To Be More Careful

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we're getting a lil more risque here folks.... not really but... enclosed spaces u know ;)

Their first case together in months, and the first really high profile one in the new year is a jewellery theft. On the surface it doesn’t seem that significant, but Lestrade, on tracing a few calls, found a minuscule digital footprint relative to the sheer might of the technological power at the address. None of the team had ever heard of a set up so advanced, apparently just sitting there. It warranted further investigation, and Mycroft’s people concluded that there was very possibly enough computing power in that house to hijack screens across the country.

‘We might be looking at our hacker,’ was the overall message that came over the phone. As well as the ever present nagging reminder of “you do realise this is the only reason we’re letting you stay?”

One mention of the "Moriarty" trail and the house is flooded with new energy. Sherlock's entire being feels like a taut string - he needs to get out on something real, as much as the house feels like home, as much as he loves being there. John does too, he can see it. See it in a lined forehead and flexing fingers. More snapping too, both of them like elastic bands when they're bored, stretching and stretching as much as possible, then breaking, suddenly and unpredictably. The past few months have been fine, have been great. But being stay at home carers doesn’t truly suit either of them, not all the time, as much as they love their charge. The house is a mess which doesn’t help; mostly Rachel's of course, but the ears in the freezer definitely weren't her idea. There have been wonderful moments inside these crayon decorated walls, but winter is long, and the lack of adventure, of any non-emotional risk, has taken its toll. A chase, a puzzle and a sprinkling of drama is all that they need.

This acknowledged, a break in seems perfect. The prospect lights up both their eyes, in neon turquoise and deep navy, and as he pulls himself in through the third story window, Sherlock's body starts to hum with it. He hasn’t forgotten that he cares about Rachel but God he really has missed this thrill, this high. Besides, Molly is looking after her, surprisingly with the help of Lestrade, who turned up awkwardly claiming Molly invited him to keep her company. For some reason John found this extremely entertaining and wouldn’t stop talking about it in the cab. It seemed ridiculous to be faced with questions like ‘did you see that coming?’ and ‘how long, do you reckon?’ on their way to the house of a potentially dangerous criminal. But it’s quintessentially them really. And it does nothing to dispel the excited tension of the prospect of a little emotion-free drama. 

 

Standing now, in his quietest shoes, in the pristine study of the person with enough data power to hack Piccadilly, where the pens are alphabetized by brand and the folders are identical and even the label maker is labeled, rummaging in a polished metal desk draw for a hint, he hears footsteps.

Muffled and slow on the carpet outside.

The moonlight severs the curtains easily and splits the sleek rug down the centre in a perfect bisect. It slashes silver across John's newly alert face. 'Fuck.' A bitter hiss of a whisper.

A shuffle outside in the hallway. Whole body on edge, heart like a broken metronome.

'Sherlock? Plan?' A soldier's resourceful calm overlaying frustration and fear.

The silence is too heavy, threatens to crush them both and leave bodies on the black wooden floor. Only breathing and the movement of the shoes behind the door. The shoes that'll get them arrested. Or killed.

Killed. He meets those hardened eyes and watches as an experienced hand goes for the security it's hidden in its back pocket.

A voice behind the door. 

Muffled and low in the darkness. _Alone?_

'Christ.' A breathless, quiet prayer at war with the dangerous delight in John's eyes.

It's only a matter of seconds now.

Sherlock shuts the drawer and risks it, strides fully across the room to where John was hunting, grabs the hand that isn't clutching the gun and pulls. They're far too loud, and every breath, every step causes a tiny flinch, but speed is their only ally left. There's a cupboard, more like a walk in filing cabinet, he remembers seeing the door. Now he bundles the two of them in in a flurry, hands steady, pulse erratic, and pulls it shut.

 

_ When the Lord closes a door, somewhere he opens a window. _

 

As the cupboard door closes and seals like an airlock, the study door opens and the footsteps enter, seemingly unaware. So far.

But in the hiding place their breathing is too loud. It's shallow and irregular and obvious. The footsteps cross to the window or the desk. It's deadly quiet but for the bloody stupid gas exchange that the shoes and their owner are bound to hear.

It's louder than anything, surely. Deafening in the otherwise quiet. They're so close and cramped in the limited space that they're breathing into each other's air, breathing each other in. Their heat slips and slides over each other's, drying Sherlock's throat and tongue.

Fuck, the room’s so bloody small they're practically pressed together, chests heaving in time, shirt buttons nearly clicking together. Their feet are side by side.

And God it's hot. Two grown men in the heat of the moment and a tiny cupboard doesn't make for comfort. They're both still in their coats too, almost panting. It smells of sweat and danger, the air threatens to shock him if he breaths too deeply.

The shoes outside in the study move and so do John's. The doctor, though it’s soldier’s experience and instinct he’s using now, readjusts his footing with a slow shuffle, and then their legs graze.

It's something that shouldn't be sexual, because they're hiding at a potential crime scene in a damn filing cupboard. But denim on fresh cotton makes a swishing, corrosive sound. And friction. Any and all friction is good; it leads to abrasion, to erosion. The subtle split second of scraping feels like a grind stone, moving millimetre by painstaking millimetre.  It makes Sherlock's eyes flutter closed.

The angles of their hips have changed too, and though there's space for both of them, movement feels amplified in this box of tight heat. There's a soft, dull clang of metal on metal, and the click of the safety in John's back pocket.

Sherlock blinks, and tries to focus on the case again.

The shoes outside are moving again, with purposeful stride, hitting the rug with a muffled thud that sounds prestigious and privileged. _Oxfords, patent, new,_ Sherlock can tell, and his mouth half opens wanting to reel them off. He doesn't, but his nervous, excited breathing is practically gushing. He tries to let it out slowly, leaning his head back against the cool metal of an array of drawers behind him, but only succeeds in poking himself with a handle and making a tiny but horrifying clanking sound. He opens his mouth in instinctive exclamation.

And a hand clamps over it.

He's unsure if his overwhelming feeling is shock or something else, if his instinct is to push the hand away or breath in the smell of it. He chooses the latter; metal and sweat and talcum powder. It traps his breath - forming a pocket of hot, electrified air - and forces him to swallow. Twice.

He meets John's eyes, dangerous and assertive, dark, warning him not to make a sound - a task which now becomes more difficult. He's sure his own eyes must be practically popping, pupils blown wide. John’s wrist is resting just under his jaw bone, their leaping pulses almost touching. He knows this is supposed to help level out his breathing. It isn’t working. 

He's not listening to the new Oxfords anymore, he can't hear them over his eardrums throbbing out a tattoo of petrified arousal. But he hears the door when it slams; John does too and it's enough to shake them both from their cocktail of staring and warning and worshiping. Lucky - a few more seconds and the mad impulse part of Sherlock's brain might have kicked in and let him slip the tip of his tongue out against those surprisingly strong fingers like light through Venetian blinds.

But now John's thrown the door open and they’re tumbling, stumbling out from the dark into the almost-as-dark, breathless, senseless, with limbs sagging and threatening to flop. Sherlock nearly trips on a rug.

 

For a moment they say nothing, and Sherlock spends the moment blinking frantically to try and get his pupils back to their regular size. What he felt then wasn't friendly. Of course, he's felt not friendly feelings before but that was... something slightly more. It felt indecent and hungry, and he’s really not supposed to feel that. He coughs.

Finally John looks at him again and smiles. 'I'm glad no one saw that,' he says, in a semi pastiche of his own voice.

And Sherlock, warming again with relief and nostalgia, smiles back, and the both of them dissolve into still breathy giggles in the middle of their own break-in that distract them until the door handle rattles once more and John tugs them both out through the window and down the street, still laughing.

  
  


Only when they’re two streets away, backs against the wall, and their panting and laughing are somewhat subsiding does John admit ‘That was close.’

‘Very.’ Sherlock agrees, seriously, but he’s sure his eyes are still lit up with the exhilaration of it all and it comes out sounding like he’s got off a rollercoaster, rather than run for his life. 

But John immediately changes the tone with a shake of his head. ‘Too close.’ he clarifies, a hundred percent serious. ‘We can’t keep doing that.’ 

Sherlock steps away from the wall, frowning. But this is what we do _,_ he thinks, I solve crimes and you save lives and blog about it, that’s how it works. And it’s ending. _ Is it ending? Why’s it ending?  _ This potential ending feels a lot more how he would have expected it to end, a crashing blow causing a crashing low, and right after he’s been rocketed up from an all natural, crime-fighting, dragon-slaying high. 

‘I mean, you can, obviously,’ John goes on, ‘but I don’t think I should. Not with Rachel and everything…’ he falters slightly, steps forward too and clears his throat. ‘I can’t leave her without a parent.’ 

‘Well, obviously…’ Sherlock mumbles into the crisp, silent January night air, expelling more misty winter breath, just for the sake of something to say. John’s right, of course - he can’t just leave Rachel like Mary did, she’s got to have someone. But as much as he loves Rachel the idea of this stopping completely is despairing. It’s giving up an integral part of their friendship, of their lives. This is how they met, how they grew. Without this rush the landscape seems barren and dry, all sand and tumbleweeds and cracking earth. But the idea of John somehow getting hurt, dying, for some cruel reason, leaving Sherlock, leaving Rachel behind… the landscape of this alternate timeline is a pure wasteland. He understands.

‘And I think maybe, I mean,’ John pauses again and exhales, sending more fog outwards and towards his shuffling feet - a sure sign of discomfort, and therefore of a reference to an emotion or painful memory to come. ‘Not that I want you going anywhere again anyway, but I’d appreciate it if you didn’t die on her either,’ he shrugs, ‘seeing as you’re around so much.’ 

It’s completely reasonable, and shouldn’t really be so upsetting, and if they were at all normal or if Sherlock was fully subscribed to Mycroft’s M.O. of “not getting involved” it wouldn’t be. Feeling that comfort of some kind would suit this new pause best, Sherlock goes to say it’s fine, that it makes sense, but John, ever surprising in his occasional perception, starts off again, sounding almost desperate under his usual exterior, speaking quicker than usual, not pausing for breath once. 

‘I know you want to find whoever it is, and I do to, but no one’s dead yet are they?’ he half grins, ‘and you  _ did _ get rid of him when... and I have to think about her -’

Sherlock nods, putting them both out of their misery. ‘Rachel comes first, obviously.’ 

‘Yeah…’ 

‘I can stop.’ he promises, ready to promise almost anything, but John shakes his head, smiling with a sense of exasperation, hopelessness, affectionate disbelief. 

‘No you can’t,’ he says, ‘You know you can’t, and I don’t want you to, I’m not asking you to. We just… have to be more careful.’ 

He nods again. Being careful, that he can do, right? Anyone can just... be more careful. No stopping involved. It’s not ending. Just being more careful. He doesn’t think about the last time John told him they needed to be more careful, and he definitely doesn’t think about the cupboard they just tumbled out off, and how that was not at all being careful but was still the best case in a long while. 

‘We’ll be more careful,’ he agrees. 

  
  


Back at home, Molly and Lestrade have opened a bottle of wine - leaving the cork on the coffee table to incriminate them - sent Rachel to bed with half the milk in her stomach, and are halfway through an old movie. It seems a shame to oust them, John comments as they hang up their coats, but they’re all smiles and ‘no worries’ and ‘it’s getting late anyway’. Lestrade helps Molly with her coat and as he leaves John asks him ‘how long has this been a thing then?’ with an eyebrow raised. He doesn’t get an answer, only a smirk and a ‘and how long have you two been making do with one bed?’ that makes him close the door with too much force. 

_ We have to be more careful. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (none of you are allowed to get excited about the moriarty subplot ok bc its not going to be exciting sorry)


	15. What Might We Deduce About His Heart?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> again i know nothing about children pls dont judge my parenting knowledge i just made it up

One of the baby related observations Sherlock's made during Rachel's lifetime is that babies have things. Things as in fads, obsessions, trends. Their thing will change, sometimes frequently, sometimes not for ages, sometimes it won't change for so long one becomes convinced it's part of their personality. But it will change. 

Rachel's current thing is hating sleep. She's had a few things over the course of her first year, including some particularly loud or inconvenient ones – banging things, dropping things, teething – but this most recent thing is really starting to grate her guardians’ nerves. 

'We just have to ignore her,' is John's executive decision, made one night after half an hour on Mumsnet. 'If she's just crying because she doesn't want to go to bed and not anything else, we just have to ignore her and walk away.' 

It does work, kind of. Rachel will stop crying. But it takes her a while, her will is made of extremely stern stuff compared to her squishy outer shell, and she only ever stops just after the same nightly script has played out across the hall: 

'Do you want me to -'

'No don't, she'll stop in a sec, we can ignore it.'

...

'What if she doesn't?'

'Hey, I don't know anything more about this than you do.'

'You're a doctor.'

'Stop bringing that up when I don't know things.'

...

...

'Maybe she's too young for ignoring it to work.'

'Shall I go?'

'No I'll go.'

'Oh, hang on... oh thank God for that.' 

 

Recently, the hatred of bedtime has extended to daytime naps. This is more difficult to ignore because there's only one person in the house half the time, so no one to check the automatic response of going in to try and stop it. Sherlock finds it very difficult to concentrate on anything, let alone important brain work, with a baby snuffling and yelling above his head. He read somewhere that babies cry at the perfect pitch for their mothers to hear it above any other noise, and he's starting to suspect it might work for both sexes. It's especially bad because it's not his baby, and what if Rachel's choking up there, or there's a burglar in her room, or the roof's caving in, or she's fallen out of her cot, or – 

He sets the box of push pins he's been using on the living room wall down with a defeatist sigh and heads up the stairs. 

 

'What?' he asks, pushing her door open a crack. 

She quietens immediately, presumably recognising his shadow in the hallway, and sniffs into her sleeve. 

'I knew it,' he goes to pull the door to. 

Rachel cries out after him. 

He rolls his eyes, still somewhat fondly, knowing after all that she's just bored and missing body heat nearby, which after all is a relatable situation. He goes back to the cot and lifts her up out of it. She smiles her gappy smile and grabs at his collar and hair. 

'I know you don't actually need anything,' he tells her, trying to be firm, but smiling despite himself as Rachel burrows further into his chest. 'And you know you do have to go to sleep at some point.' 

There's a quiet 'no' and a rush of bubbly giggles. 

Rachel's grasp of language has been improving drastically since the "taxi" occasion and she's now got a firm understanding of what the most basic phrases mean, as well as speaking more, using the raw materials "no", "yes", "want", and "dad".  "No" seems to have become her favourite. 

'No,' she mumbles, again and again, wriggling and laughing. It's amazing really, watching her grow and change. She can talk now. She can stand and basically walk if she really tries, though it's more like a stagger. She's got more control of her hands, her fingers – drinking for herself and banging spoons on counter tops in kind of rhythms. Her features are clearer, though her round, often ruddy cheeks still dwarf them, and her hair, now making itself stand up with static from rubbing against Sherlock's shirt, covers her whole head, and is starting to thicken, and grow more yellow. Hopefully it'll fully turn from its current soft platinum blonde into a more golden one – the colour of perfectly baked sponge, or summer sun hitting the peak of a Cornish sand dune; a more homely colour. She sits up a little now, raises her chin and meets Sherlock's eyes with her stunningly blue ones. 

Saying no to her when her eyes are wide and staring like this is more difficult. They're so familiar and special, and they light up like the sky on Fireworks Night when they're happy, and droop awfully when they're sad. It's like saying no to a puppy. Except that the puppy can laugh and smile, and has a brain that's going to be more beautiful and complex than any other internal working in the biological world, and carries the genes of the person you'd call closest to your idea of perfection. And the puppy has  _ those _ eyes. Eyes that would house mermaids and magical fish and biblical whales and the Loch Ness Monster if they were real. It's very hard to say no to her when her eyes are wide and staring because their wide stare is full of the amazement and adoration that's less frequently observable in the almost indistinguishable pair that belong to her father, and being the reason  _ his _ eyes stare like that has, since 'Afghanistan or Iraq', become the biggest motivator Sherlock's ever had. 

When he looks at Rachel, with her sleep crusted cherubic face and smiling mouth and John's eyes but somehow softer, his only option really is to sigh and let her have whatever it is. That's pathetic, he doesn't need telling. But that's how it is. 

'Okay, fine,' he says, 'you can stay here a bit.' 

She snuggles closer again. Honestly, he thinks, there's no way she doesn't understand him. She's probably one of the most intelligent developing children in the country. He wouldn't be surprised, given her chromosomes. 

'Only a bit,' he adds, but Rachel isn't deterred from her giggling and burrowing into his neck. 

Sherlock never expected to care much about her really. He's never disliked children – they're usually a whole lot less stupid than adults, something that probably comes as a package deal with their innocence and lack of self-consciousness – but people tend not to trust him with them. Perhaps then, in fairness to himself, attachments haven't really had chances to form. Either way, the prospect of Rachel's arrival caused a mess of tangled and unnecessary emotions that essentially weighed out as neutral. He knew she'd be as wonderful as a baby in a disputable domestic situation could be, and he knew he'd be there for her whenever, wherever, for whatever, but he'd assumed it would be the want to help, to be around, that would lead to his hanging on the end of the phone, or splattered in yellow paint. He’d assumed it would be for John. But it turned out to be more than that. It turned out, really, that he loves her. 

It's the quiet moments that's just them that let him consider this. Let him consider what a crazily long way they've come together. He remembers his first attempt at babysitting with a grimace. It's really not that difficult now, not in the quiet moments, rare as they usually are. He slides a hand down over her hair, feeling the where the downy texture is turning thicker, more like soft straw, and smiles. 

The quiet is broken though, enthusiastically, with Rachel's newest and favourite word, and suddenly the moment is anything but tranquil. 

She says "dad", or she almost does; it's her harshest consonant sound followed by a long 'ahh' and a closing of her mouth that just forms the last letter – easily recognisable, distinguishable, undeniable. She said "dad", she made that short string of proud sounds that she's been making the past week or so, in John's arms, as he hands her things, when he's out of her sight. Only now... only now she's...

'No, no, oh no,' Sherlock lifts her away from him, up so they're at eye level, 'Rachel, no, no no no –' 

Rachel just stares and grins and says it again. Apparently the whole situation is a joke to her. In her defence, joking in awkwardly emotional or uncomfortable situations is probably in her genes, but her cheeriness is entirely inappropriate. He's not even supposed to have gotten so attached to her, considering he's got enough of that on his plate to be distracting as it is. He's not her parent he's barely a parental figure oh Christ –

He tries to tell again, the words coming out short and quick and desperate. 'No, no, I'm not, Rachel, listen, I'm not–'

Downstairs the front door opens. The bottom of it scrapes across the welcome mat with a coarse swish. There's a carefree whistle and the sound of keys dumped on porcelain and a call of his name. Oh Christ.

 

He takes the stairs slowly, after each one murmuring to Rachel still. 'That's your dad there,' he says, quieter and quieter as they close in on John and his "got home earlier than planned" smile. He waits, breath baited, heels rocking, as John sets his things aside to take Rachel from him, praying, or hoping rather, since prayer isn't something he'd rely on for something as urgent as this, that she won't say it again and ruin all this - this working, undisturbed, happy situation - that they've finally established.  John takes her, sighs, grins, and says 'I never thought I'd say this, but thank God for the non-vaccinating parents'. Rachel replies with her B grade version of "dad", and his expression relaxes into a smooth pool, before he plants a kiss on her forehead and greets her properly – 'hi, Bee. shouldn't you be sleeping?' 

Sherlock opens his mouth to defend himself, but he doesn't get an excuse out. 

'Oh well, you'll probably shut up quicker tonight won't you, hmm?' 

John barely makes it to his chair before collapsing into it with a sigh and the squawking of protesting springs. Rachel pats at his knees and chest, looking for more attention. Sherlock goes and flicks the kettle into life. It's a familiar routine: the bubbling and steaming, the tiered breaths of relief. He might have gotten away with it. 

He hasn’t. As he carries tea over and smiles in the general direction of both father and daughter, Rachel says it again. There's a silence. Oh God. His mind scrabbles urgently at the metaphorical cliff edge, searching for a way to close this, to never bring it up again. But it's too late. He hears the clink of John's mug against its coaster. There's a tighter feeling in the room now than there was before. It's too late. He has to say something. 

'Sorry,' is his choice, and it comes out quiet and small, addressed to the sofa cushions. 

'Don't be,' John says, 'for what?'

Sherlock looks back at him, shocked to hear a lack of concern, to see a lack of surprise, annoyance, anger betrayal, anything. 'For –'

'Dad,' Rachel says, eyes on him, wide and excited.

'– that…'

Now John does raise his eyebrows, but he looks amused rather than upset, and when he says 'well don't be,' again it's measured and calm. He shrugs, leans back in his chair, picks up his tea again. 'Hardly matters does it?' 

_ Hardly matters?  _ How can it hardly matter? Sherlock keeps the questions silent and slowly sits down, blows gently, pensively across his own tea. Rachel's not his daughter, not at all, luckily for her. She's John's; she carries him and at least half his traits within her still developing beautiful brain. Why on earth would he want to share or risk that?  _ Hardly matters.  _ He's offering her tea now, the fatigue from his working day wiped entirely off his face from grinning. How can he possibly not think it matters that Rachel's probably unwisely letting Sherlock into this picture of domesticity and happiness? Maybe he doesn’t mind. Why wouldn’t he mind? He's so happy with Rachel, loves her and loves her love – why would he want to share that? 

Well however John's come to the conclusion that it doesn’t matter, it apparently doesn’t, and now, it seems, Rachel has made the final statement that's made Sherlock part of this… family… family? That's a panic inducing world to be part of if ever there was one. The surface of his tea tremors, tiny vibrations passed from his hands. Somehow there's something else underlying the panic though. Something much sweeter and smoother. Now that it "hardly matters", that other part flows a little more easily, sticks less. In a simple definition it's most probably happiness. In a more complex definition it’s leaving the house dressed perfectly for your favourite weather, and returning just in time for a cuppa before the plans you’ve been looking forward to all day. Oh the panic's still there, but the something else is washing up against it, and erosion is bound to start. 

Rachel says it again as he takes their cups back to the kitchen. 

 

Later, before bed, as John's in the bathroom, Sherlock sneaks down and under the blinds to look out at the few stars visible from their city suburbs. Down the hall, he knows Rachel's looking up at the plastic glowing ones they blue-tacked to her ceiling. They're nice, but the real thing can't be beaten. The real thing is pure, despite the pollution and fog that clouds it, and sublime; unbelievable yet real, tangible on a close textured night like this one. He wants to touch every one of those stars and name them Rachel Watson. Except the sun, obviously. He named that one years ago after learning his whole world moved around it. 

When he's ducked out from behind the blind after hearing the taps run, and clambered into what's come to be their bed, and John's said 'goodnight' and flicked the bedside lamp off before really getting comfortable, he considers. Rachel must be his in some way, some very small way. 

It is a good night. 


	16. The Signs of Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> finally........

One Thursday at the very end of February it's sunny. Chilly, but actually sunny. They wake up, still lying next to each other - somehow the longer they go without buying another bed the more awkward it seems to bring it up - with the sunlight almost white through the gap under the curtains, and John says 'I'm calling in sick', before pulling the covers off to cross the hall to Rachel's room. 

The day off and the sunshine makes the zoo an obvious choice, apparently. Sherlock's never actually been to London Zoo, which their cabbie thinks is ridiculous, and, despite his adult and kind of parent status, he's almost excited as they pull up in front of the gates. Not as excited as Rachel though, nowhere near. She's positively radiant as she leaps out onto the pavement, glowing as bright white as the winter sunshine, her cheeks already rosy from the cold and the thrill of it all. She's wearing her bumble bee wellies,  a pair of oversized mittens, and a hat with flaps that cover her almost neon pink ears. She takes a few stumbled joyous steps before John catches her around the middle and tells her 'one second won't kill you, Bee, it's not a race.'

It being a Thursday at the very end of February, they don't have to wait for hours in a queue. They're through the gates swiftly and onto the first attraction without any crowds to bar them. Rachel can toddle freely, unencumbered, and there's no worry she's going to fall or crash into anyone else. Sherlock's starting to see the simple beauty in this calling in sick idea. 

At the risk of sounding sappy, Rachel has the most beautiful smile - when she's really happy it doesn't even matter that her cheeks are bigger than her fists or that she's still got ‘jowls to rival Churchill’. It's infectious. She giggles and turns her face away when he tries to put sun cream on her nose - 'just because it’s cold doesn't mean you won't get burned...' - and frowns, pointing and laughing, as penguins, then flamingos, then llamas, flop and strut and lope around. 

 

Closer to midday she hops back in the buggy, letting her legs dangle, and starts taking a bit more charge of the expedition. Her language skills still aren't expert though, so the gallant leader picks from a list:

'What do you want to see now then?' John asks her, 'giraffes? I think they have giraffes... or elephants? Fish? There's a whole aquarium?'

'Monkeys?' Sherlock suggests, 'there's gorillas, I saw a sign.' 

Rachel nods enthusiastically at his words and bounces her legs against the buggy excitedly. 

'Ok gorillas then,' John grins, unfolding a map, 'oh, isn't there a boat or something? I'm sure I heard someone talking about a boat... oh, the gorilla boat trips are on the hour, we just missed it...'

Rachel peers up at him, catching his cadence, looking disappointed. 'Boat?'

'We could get it at one, go somewhere else now?'

'Sounds like a plan.'

Sherlock takes the map with him as he squats in front of the buggy. 'Rachel, we're going to take the boat to see the gorillas later okay? Why don't we go and look in the aquarium now? Fish?'

Rachel nods and tries 'fish' uncertainly but excitedly. 

 

'Wow that sure was easy,' comes a voice from behind them. The speaker is a frazzled looking woman holding onto two energetic children of her own, one by the hand and the other via a lead and pair of dungarees. As Sherlock turn she flushes slightly and pushes her fringe out of her eyes. 'I just mean, it's not often you see a kid so well behaved here,' she smiles, 'she's a credit to you, you must be brilliant parents.'

'Oh, no,' he says, quickly trying to disassociate, 'no, I'm not -' 

But John swoops in and interrupts him. 'Thanks,' he replies, grinning, 'we do our best.' 

The woman waves as they head off to the aquarium, which does nothing to help the fretting whirlpools that are collecting in Sherlock's stomach. He's quiet, contemplating, all the way through the eerie blue-lit tunnels and out again, all they way onto the boat. 

 

It's slightly warmer after midday, and almost feels like spring. Not that anyone will say that, because saying it jinxes it, and this is England – it's not going to last. Rachel keeps her hat on, but John ends up taking the mittens away from her, since she's fond of fiddling and they're 'too adorable and expensive' to risk losing in the water. The sunlight causes her to lean over the side (she fought both her guardians fiercely for the window seat), turning her face up to it like a flower and laughing. Even the scraped and solid plastic-covered benches are warming, and they're kept shaded by the drooping canopy that hangs over head. The falsely bright voice of the scarily blonde zookeeper announces the start of the tour, and, following the safety information, walks halfway down the aisle to glower pointedly at Rachel's groping fingers hanging off the edge. John grabs her and reigns in giggles. 

It really is a beautiful day. 

It stays that way, magically, even with the ordinary people chatter that surrounds them – though in all fairness not that many others have seen the light of John's 'skiving work for the gorilla boat' idea. the sun rises even higher, and though it's still distant enough to maintain the bracing barely-spring chill, it's warmer and warmer on Rachel's face as she continues to obstinately stick it out from under the awning above them. The gorillas evidently don't think much of the weather though, as they remain just as stubbornly hidden away. Their guide assures them it won't be long, but she looks more and more nervous and placating each time she says it. Rachel doesn't seem to mind that much; she's probably forgotten why they're even here, enjoying the water and the odd swaying sensation of the boat too much to worry. John doesn't either, which is more surprising, since this whole thing was his idea. He's smiling to himself the whole way down the river, relaxed and easy in the privacy of his own headspace. 

 

'Why are you smiling?' Sherlock asks, wanting to be in on the amusing conspiracy. 

'I was just thinking about what that woman said,' John replies, slowly, thinking thoroughly over every word. 'About Rachel. I was thinking she's right.'

'That Rachel's well behaved?'

He shakes his head. 'That she's a credit to  _us.'_

The stress is on "us", and it makes Sherlock pause and finger the peeling plastic in a second of realisation. Unsure realisation. If that's a thing. It's probably not. Things always seem to be things in their case though. 'You didn't correct her...' he says, and though he's had his lightbulb moment it's still only a glow, mirrored in his words – cautious as a stuttering filament.

'No.' comes the answer, then another pause and more of the horrifically patterned fabric comes away from the bench. Then John takes a breath which involuntarily causes his own fingers to shift across the seat, closing the gap. 'Because she was right you know,' he says, and his hand may have moved but he's staring straight ahead, as if fixation on one point will make talking easier. 'Rachel's not mine and Mary's, not now. she's mine and yours.'

It's possibly the most romantic and ridiculous thing he's ever said, and he says a lot of both romantic and ridiculous things. “Us”, “mine and yours” – they're not even particularly special words, and over anything else it wouldn't be special. Over things they've shared before: a fridge, a credit card, a bottle of wine. With a child it is, it has to be. It's special, and “special” is such an awful pedestrian cliché word but it's accurate. It's a big statement to make. 'She's mine and yours'. Wonderful in itself of course, because Sherlock loves Rachel and to share her like this is a gift he never anticipated, but it's even more than that. “She's mine and yours” – it's so close to “what's mine is yours”, and so close to “you're mine and I'm yours”... But he's getting ahead of himself. It's almost enough to make him turn and force their eyes to meet, but he doesn't. Straight ahead is easier. He says 'Your basic biology is appalling, I can't believe you ever got into Queen Mary’s,' because that's easy too, because it covers the fact that his voice has gone weak.

'Shut up,' he's told, only half seriously, 'you know what I mean. Things have changed.' God how much that's true. Understatement of the century. Well, of the year maybe – they're always understating, there's a lot of competition. 'You're as much a parent as I am, even she thinks so...' it's the second time today and the third since Rachel started talking that John's done this – thought of them as parents, grouped them – but it's no less powerful this time, and the words lead to more flaking at pulling at the bench, pieces of scraped plastic stutter to the floor. 'And I was thinking,' John goes on, slower and more deliberate every word, clearly thinking at least two steps ahead, 'I think maybe we should, be together.' 

For a second Sherlock thinks he must be dreaming. Then he thinks he's died and woken up in a heaven he doesn't believe in. Then he thinks it's a joke. Then all he can think is variations of curses broken by the sobs of relief he'll never actually ever let himself cry. For a second he's sent as high as on any substance, and  _oh my God oh my God oh my God_ is the only noise, racing through his mind yanking doors open that haven’t been opened in years, sending them banging against the walls in the gusts of _oh my God this can not be happening_ . Then he realises with a sudden halt and crash. A bird hitting a glass window. Oh.

 

'You mean for Rachel,' he says, his voice flat, drained fully of the energy that's just been spent on his nanosecond of an emotional roller-coaster. 

He wonders if he'd still do it – enter into a not-really-real real relationship, get even closer while only deepening and deepening the crack, the chasm, the canyon between them. He's already thinking ahead, planning ahead, envisioning, mapping out their future from only a few words of a proposal. It would hurt, oh God it would hurt like anything. And worth it? Probably not. But he knows full well within a heartbeat that he'd do it. He's a proud masochist with an addictive personality, of course he'll bloody do it. That's what this love is. This love is awful and unconditional and determined to hurt him in the sweetest possible way. This love is going to hold him under in a vat of sugared wine, or chocolate, like that story mother read them once and had to put down because he wouldn't stop laughing and saying Mycroft was the boy who fell in, until he's so saturated he'll sink of his own accord. 

The thoughts are cloudy, and overly poetic, and illogical. They're still true. 

They're interrupted. 

'No!' John's voice is saying, more loudly, somewhat angrily, but, his words go on to reveal, directed inwardly, 'No, no, God no. That's not what I meant, God I did that badly.' He half laughs, nervously, and now, finally, turns, so that they're directly facing, so his eyes are straight on target and honest as he says 'no I mean, for us.'

Sherlock frowns at him, forcing his brain to keep its confusion, not daring to let himself hope he really heard that and that it really could mean what he really thinks it could mean. 'For us..?'

'Yeah,' John says, and he's smiling again, albeit as nervously as a child at their first talent show, or a person on the verge of saying 'I love you' on an airport runway. 'Not because it would make us better parents,' (there's parents again, that makes four, it must be a final executive decision then) 'because I want to, and you...' here he trails off, the unspoken "are fucking ridiculously irrevocably in love with me" hanging, a taught drone, under that triplet that's really the only thing that matters: "I want to". 

It's a real effort on Sherlock's part not to let his answering words croak. 'You want to?'

'Well... yeah...' there's that nervous, tight lipped smile again, and the familiar hand rubbing on the back of the familiar neck. 'For ages, really...'

This time it's harder, and he does fail, and the words do croak. 'You... you have?'

'Course I have.' This time there's actually a hint of exasperation in John's smile, which Sherlock thinks is more than a little unreasonable, since it’s hardly been obvious. ‘I’ve been working up to asking you for a bit, honestly, I thought you’d work it out. And... well, considering, uh, everything, I thought I should probably wait... You know everything about me how could you not..?’

His eyes have probably swelled to double their regular size in shock. Which, yes, he knows is scientifically impossible. His pupils then, if he's being precise. This isn't a time for precision. There is no usual in this case. 'But,' and embarrassingly, he can barely even stammer, 'you said "I know"...'

'I said "I know"?'

'When I...'  _When I told you that I love you and I meant it and I meant that I’ve cried and tried and died for you and I meant that you're the sun to me and the moon and every part of the goddamn solar system you seem so interested in_ . 'Got off the plane...'

'Oh. Well I did know,' John says, and the defensive edge is covered without much finesse. 

'I know that. But you didn't say...' 

'No, I didn't,' John allows, but he's struggling now, starting to stumble, 'well I didn't, I mean I don't... It's more...' He throws his hands up half-heartedly and looks away again. 'I'm not good at this,' he says, back to staring at the prow, and follows with a bitter mutter of 'you know I'm not' just as Sherlock tries to help:

'I know.' 

There's another beat before it looks, for a second, like John's going to try again. But their guide starts up now, narrating their journey around the optimistically named Gorilla Island, and though she may have snubbed his parenting abilities, he doesn't talk over her. Her fact reel is minimal, sparse, and Sherlock could probably tell her at least three more, but it seems to last at least a lifetime. The other passengers smile and nod infuriatingly with polite interest, as if they don't have a revelation, a scientific breakthrough hanging over them – suspended joy, working on the premise of suspended disbelief. She stops, eventually, with the promise that they'll see at least one of these decidedly absent animals. It's difficult to remember they reason they're on this stupid boat what with the possibility of things about to change. Everything.  _ Hurry up, hurry up, for God’s sake please hurry up.  _

The quiet returns, their bubble re-descends, and John starts again with a deep breath. 'I know I didn't say it back or... but I've always felt... I mean I've always liked you. Since the start.' 

He looks up as he says those last words, and again his eyes bare an honesty that borders on confusing, since it's hardly a huge confession. Sherlock frowns. 'I know. I'm your best friend.'

John actually gapes at him now, eyebrows climbing like the start of a roller coaster. 'No I mean... Oh God please don't make me say I like like you.' 

'You like like me?'

John looks like he wants to laugh, except that this conversation is so awkward and painful it's impossible to; he smiles through gritted teeth and sucks in another breath. 'What I mean is, you're my best friend and everything, obviously, but I'm saying I've always been... You're more than – no, I don't mean more...' he falters again, becoming frustrated, 'I mean, you remember trying to ward me off at Angelo's?' 

Sherlock does remember. Half regrets it every day. Half, because he thought it was nothing more than a playful, even ironic attempt at courtship, he'd never dreamed it was serious. And of course, when challenged, John had shrunk back behind "it's all fine"s and the subject had never been broached again. He'd been saving them both the pain hadn't he? He furrows his brow again, 'But I didn't think...'

'What? That I was serious?' 

'That you wouldn't just... let it go...' the teasingly murderous look he's getting now is making him flustered. 'I thought you were just... trying –'

'Trying it on?' John asks, and though he sounds somewhat offended he's smirking. 'You thought I was flirting with you because you think I flirt with everyone.'

'No,' Sherlock replies defensively, 'Maybe...'

'Well I wasn't.' John says simply. 'Maybe I was.' He shrugs, and glances down yet again. Anyone who's ever seen them talk must think there's an artist who follows them around, painting intricate masterpieces on the floor that must be studied intently. They're never not looking at the floor. It's so much easier. It's been years, why is the floor easier? When they'd both rather look at each other than any masterpiece? 'Point is,' he goes on and though he's more matter of fact and brusque the more sentimental he's becoming, as he goes on and goes on, somehow softens again, until his words are a rant of emotion, a fierce but regulation wave of feeling. He goes on and it's like he can't stop anymore. He sounds less like he's talking for the benefit of anyone hearing and more for the benefit of his unstoppable tide of words. Language is so limiting, but here John's tumbling words make it sound liberating. 'I like you and, obviously the last half a year has been... difficult, and having you back, around, has been the best possible thing that could have happened, and, I guess I didn't remember, or I didn’t want to remember just how far gone I was over you until you were here again, without Mary, just... being you, and Rachel is obviously bloody besotted with you as well which didn't help and... Yeah... I like you that's all I'm saying really.' The tide is stemmed. A self-conscious tone returns to the words, his eyes to the seat in front, his hand to the nape of his neck. But it's been said. It's been said and the bloody Hoover Dam couldn't stop those words now. It's been said. And Sherlock finally understands. 

'Oh.' He says. He understands. "Like" is a confusing word, but "far gone" he can understand the implications of. Wonderful implications. Terrifying implications.  _Just how far gone I was over you_ . Over  _him_ , William Sherlock Scott Holmes, adrenaline junkie and ex-junkie with only a whippet mind and a few filled jail cells to his bordering-on-ridiculous name, slave to reason and would-be suffocator of romanticism. Implications, almost facts. Essentially facts.  _Just how far gone I was over you_ . Far Gone. So many implications, Revolutionary implications. Lighting lamps; lighting fires. 'Oh.'

He's been thinking about the implications for what he sees as an unquantifiable amount of time. John evidently doesn't see it that way – it must have been minutes. 'Please say something other than "oh",' he begs. 

'Oh. I –' 

He's going to say something else (quite what he's not sure), but Rachel interrupts with a loud squeal that alerts not only her parents but he whole boat to the first sighting of the actual reason they're on it in the first place. There's a collective 'ooh'; their tour guide breathes a tangible sigh of relief. 

In response to the tugging on his sleeve, Sherlock turns his attention dutifully and relatively easily to Rachel. She must be the only thing in the world that could pull him from John in this moment. 'It's a gorilla Rachel,' he tells her, taking her hand to stop her leaning too far, the other remaining firmly on the bench in its original position, a centimetre, two maybe, from John's, 'one of our closest genetic ancestors.' 

From over his shoulder: 'God, it's huge.' 

'The silverbacks can weigh up to 180 kilograms,' he adds, not turning round yet, following Rachel's gaze. 

Then there's a sigh, a contented sigh through a mouth that’s pulled up at the corners, and John says, quietly, 'Please go out with me.' 

Now he turns. Eyes lock. His mouth's fallen into an 'o', parted lips rapidly drying against the cool air with nothing to wet them. "Go out with me" – that’s got to be the bluntest John's ever been.  _Go out with me._ Phrased like a request but the verb is indicative. Go out.  _Salir, sortir, ausgehen._ A couple then, partners, not just partners in crime. He blinks. This is happening. He should pinch himself. No he shouldn’t, that’s ridiculous people don’t really – 

'Sherlock, that's a question' 

He's completely drifted. The rope of all their hiding severed, but there’s still the final valiant strand of it, twisting, fibres springing lose every minute or so, after years and years of clumsy sawing and hacking; almost snapped. 'Yes, yes of course,' he murmurs in apology, shaking his head in an attempt to clear it, then realises what he's said and stares more. 'Yes,' he says again, and can feel everything, the remaining weight of his lies and lies by omission just… drop. 'Of course.'

 

Smiles. The relief is so visible in both of them, all an outsider would see is two men who've collapsed, practically sunk down after so long being stretched in all directions. What they wouldn’t see is the new forming, but hugely oh so much easier, nerves. The "oh my God this happening"s. The freedom without all that weight is overwhelming, and the headspace that’s suddenly available makes Sherlock feel more than a little faint. All that clear air above him, cloudless. A vast expanse of nothing but "go out with me", of "just how far gone I was over you". Clear blue. He's not sure what to do with all of it except smile and smile and let his metaphorically crushed heart catch its breath. He gives it just a second, mulls over those wonderful words again, studies intrinsically John's mirroring smile, before asking 'so, what happens now?'

John's smile widens, quirks, and he ducks his head before saying 'well, don't panic, but –' 

Sherlock, predictably, blanches in his exaggerated attempt to stay calm. 'What? Why would I panic?'

He sounds panicky, too falsely calm, too quick, which is stupid because he's determinedly not panicking. John just smiles. And then he's shifting slightly on the bench and it squeaks. And then his hand is coming up and his fingers gingerly hovering almost against Sherlock's face, against his jaw. So close, but in molecular terms it's a ridiculous distance; a ridiculous distance that still makes Sherlock breathe faster. He can feel their pulses jumping together in syncopation across the gulf. All this happens in a second, it's a shock he can even recognize all of this in the second it takes. Then it's the next second, and John is kissing him. 

He'd thought perhaps (not, he maintains, that he's ever thought about it) this would an occasion he would stop thinking. But his mind isn't a light switch and it doesn't go blank just because a pair of mostly soft, only slightly chapped lips are on his. He's still thinking: thinking about how Rachel's mittens itch against  _his_ skin but she doesn't seem to mind; about the gorillas here and if they mind the boat, or ever minded it, if they were scared, consciously or as a reflex; about how he closed his eyes just now as as a reflex, how they're still closed now and why; about how it's been years and he's not sure if he wishes it hadn't been; about how John is kissing him, John is kissing him, John is kissing him…

He'd thought perhaps (and maybe he has thought about it, does it make a difference?) that the poets' talk of spinning would be true. He's trying to work out if it is. Perhaps his head is spinning – it feels like it could be, like all the depleting helium in the world is congregating there. But he's not going anywhere, spinning off anywhere, because he's grounded, here, on a boat in London Zoological Gardens, Regent's Park, London NW1 4RY.  With John. Maybe they're the only ones not spinning. 

No. Nothing's changed, nothing's going anywhere. His whole world is different now but even he's not so arrogant as to think his world is everyone's. People in Ghana or St. Petersburg or the next London postcode don't care that John is kissing him. Hell, the people in the seats in front of them don't care. The wheel turns. The tide comes slowly in and out (it's the moon that does that – there: solar system) and the water it's moved somewhere down the line still causes its little ripples to lap against the sides of their boat. No one else in the world, perhaps one or two but virtually zero by ratio, cares, or even knows. It's okay. He can care enough for all of them, every one. He cares. John is kissing him.

For a second. Two? It could have been any number. Definitely fewer than ten, but these things are difficult to tell, even for a genius. Difficult when sentiment stops you counting. Now he's pulling away again, and the warmth and shock of it all is easily missed. He's smiling though at Sherlock's stunned expression (he opened his eyes again and they assumedly blew up wide and blinking). 

'Probably should have saved that for the date,' he says, and though he sounds sheepish he doesn't look it. He doesn't look like he regrets it, quite the opposite. He looks like he's won the lottery, which is stupid, obviously, because surely Sherlock's the winner here if anyone is – and the chance of two people winning is so minuscule it's zero. 

'Oh,' he replies. It's apparently his favourite vowel. 'We’re doing that are we?' 

He gets a grin, a fleeting snippet, a preview, of the full flirting that's about to come his way. Softer around the edges though - a more relaxed, less refined version. 'Course we are. We're too people who like each other aren't we? We can go out and have fun can't we?' 

It's an effort to keep his ears from flushing at this point and God they probably already have and this is just the start oh God. 'Where are going?' 

'You know where we're going,' John says, smiling again, touching his shoulder, going into their rucksack for Rachel's mittens. 

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i have never been to london zoo and im assuming they dont have a gorilla island or a boat but i have a memory of being on one so i think they had one at bristol zoo and you know..... artistic licence??


	17. (Not) His Date

Saturday arrives more swiftly than expected, and seven o’clock Saturday evening is fast approaching. It’s seven forty-eight now, and Sherlock’s still stood in front of the bathroom mirror. He’s been there for forty minutes now, and counting.

He’s showered twice, lost count of how many times he’s changed into a slightly different shirt, and now is trying to make a decision regarding his hair, despite the fact that he hasn’t bothered to change anything about it since his early twenties.

Because he’s going on a date.

He, Sherlock Holmes, is actually going on a date. Going on a date with John Watson. With his best friend, roommate, co child rearer and singular light and love of his life John Watson. And he’s only marginally, definitely not properly, merely slightly terrified.

An actual date. In a restaurant. With flowers probably, and candles, food, wine, conversation, flirting maybe. Oh my God. Okay. He’s seen John in flirt mode, and it’s truly impressively disgusting, but has obviously yet to be on the receiving end. Well, maybe he has. He’s never one hundred percent sure. Sometimes it's a bit more subtle, and he's hardly an expert on technique. He’s not good at telling. The only time he’d thought he'd picked up on it was that first night, and he’d been emphatically shut down when he tried to go easy. He’d said ‘married to my work’ and been told ‘it’s all fine’; the conversation had probably helped significantly in delaying this moment. Maybe that’s a good thing? Of course that’s not a good thing. He wants this doesn’t he? Well of course, more than anything, but... 

He plays absently with his cuff, wonders if maybe he has been the recipient - victim? - of accidental flirting before, wonders if he’s ever accidentally returned the favour. He wonders if John’s flirted with other men before. He wonders if the flirting is mandatory or if they can just carry on as they always are, only in the slightly, wonderfully altered context. He wonders if that’d even be any different. Is any of it mandatory at all? Or at least recommended? Sherlock’s far too proud to go looking up dating tips on WikiHow, but still he wonders if John will kiss him again. Maybe do more than kiss him…

A rap on the bathroom door brings his head away from hypotheticals and back to the gloomy bathroom, to the dingy old aqua tiles and the flickering fluorescent bulb, with something of the jump. ‘Sherlock, you okay?’

‘Yeah... just a second…’

‘Leaving in two, yeah?’ John says, and just the familiarity of his tone and expressions is enough to be comforting.

Comforting only for a second of course, because that’s the thing about thoughts, they’re idle and never fully close the windows and doors they open earlier in the day, and now he’s thinking about it again, about whether it really is familiar.

Obviously he’s still the same person, and John is still the same person, and their way of interacting clearly hasn’t changed all that much yet, and it’s even the same bloody restaurant that they always end up in. But still, this is a date. Those are supposed to be different aren’t they? John had said ‘when two people who like each other go out and have fun’, but that’s obviously not all of it because that they’ve done before and they’ve never dated. Not with candles and food and wine. Well, no, they have done that.

Okay, so, so far dating proving to be a lot more complex than John made it out to be at the zoo, than any trashy TV show or grossly sappy film ever portrayed either. Sherlock groans. They’re not even out of the door yet.

He turns to the mirror again, looks himself full in his stupidly wide eyes, tells himself sternly to calm down, or tries. Halfway through he starts fiddling with his fringe instead, and is back to thinking about his appearance, for probably the fiftieth time today.

He’s not vain, or he doesn’t think he is, despite John’s frequent raised eyebrows. Maybe it’s his upbringing - ‘you’ve been to as many public schools as you have names’ John had pointed out one afternoon, bitter but amused - but when he decides to make an effort he makes an effort. He’s never thought about it as something to be particularly proud or insecure about, it’s just what he does. Now though, and throughout the day, he’s been far too much over tiny details. People usually try harder on dates, don’t they? But what’s the point in this situation? John’s seen him lying bloodied on cold concrete, seen him with a bullet hole in his chest, seen him curled in the corner of a drug den. They live together, work together, look after a toddler together - it seems stupid to worry about appearances now when they’ve never mattered before. It’s not like he’s shy, or introverted, or lacking in self-esteem. Really. Not like that. He’s not stupid, he knows people have found him attractive before, the physical signs are ridiculously easy to pick up once you know what you’re looking for - anyone can do it,  _ John _ can do it. But this is different, because he’s not trying to manipulate or intimidate anyone now.

He pulls a small tendril of hair lose, lets it spring back, winds it round his finger, before letting go irritably. This is so pathetically pedestrian.

Another tap on the door, louder this time, makes him start again and for God’s sake why is he so jumpy? It’s not like he never asked for this, never wanted it. ‘Sherlock, I know Angelo probably won’t mind but I did tell him eight,’ John calls through the door, and Sherlock can practically hear him checking his watch, and it really is normal. Sherlock checks his own watch. It’s seven fifty-three. Oh God has he really been in the bathroom that long? ‘And we still have to go by Baker Street to drop Rachel off…’

‘Right, right, sorry,’ he says, knowing if it really was normal he wouldn’t be apologising. He flushes the toilet and runs the tap a few seconds before emerging to create some sort of haphazard, makeshift, immature excuse. All that time in preparation and he still leaves the bathroom slightly redder than he’d like.

 

John hasn’t been in the bathroom for forty-five minutes, most likely because he’s done this enough to have control of the situation, but he’s evidently used the privacy of their one bedroom to his advantage - the wardrobe door is ajar and barely conceals the heap of clothes inside where there should be neat on their hangers. He’s settled predictably on his one nice jacket, the velvet one he only ever wears when he’s trying impress or look more formal than he can really deal with, and somehow his hair looks brighter than usual. He smiles as Sherlock closes the door, somewhat flustered, and says ‘blimey I didn’t think you’d be that long.’ Sherlock shrugs, feigning nonchalance - though he suspects rather unconvincingly. Then John goes on, and his eyes, previously somewhere around shin height, snap up, and he blinks once, twice, rapidly. ‘You look nice though.’

‘Oh,’ he says, mortified that he can already feel the treacherous colour threatening to rise again in his cheeks. He shifts his feet ever so slightly, probably not that noticeable but to him it seems the ultimate tell. ‘I look the same as always,’ he replies, and it comes out more confused than he’d planned, less sardonic.

John just hums, amusement, agreement, approval, and the corners of his mouth pull into a much slyer smile that makes it even more of a challenge not to flush like some hopeless teenager. He’s just warming up as well… Sherlock pushes past him to the hallway, muttering what he hopes is an irritated rather than bashful ‘shut up’.

  
  


 

With Rachel safely cooped up and sleeping in the downstairs flat of 221, they head off down the road. Their feet move without thinking, knowing the way like animals instinctively following a well trodden path. There’s not much in the way of speaking; it’s so much easier and just as pleasant and far less nerve wracking to simply watch the cars, bikes, buses, pedestrians, taxis… Sherlock can’t help feeling deja vu, thinking back to their humble beginnings, their awkward but instantaneously familiar origins. He chances a few glances sideways, wishes yet again that he’d tried a bit harder in school, at uni, so he could know better what to say. But John doesn’t seem to mind the silence either. As they reach the door he looks up and says ‘beautiful, isn't it?’

Sherlock rolls his eyes, doesn’t bother to follow John’s gaze. ‘far too much light pollution for you to see anything worth seeing,’ he says, perhaps more softly then he would have if it had been anyone else. As he opens the door though he notes that John’s not looking at the clouded late evening sky at all, but at  _ him _ , and that his face is once again wearing that happy, entertained smile that would surely make anyone’s insides feel slightly more agitated, make anyone’s brain a fraction slower. Sherlock doesn’t tell him to shut up this time, just scoffs and heads into the restaurant.

 

Again, there’s that sense of being here before. Being here tens, hundreds of times before. Their usual waiter showing them into their usual seat, taking their usual places at the table by the window, perusing the usual menus for the usual sake of appearance when they both practically know the list by heart. The only difference now is slightly nicer clothes and slightly more grated nerves and the fact that, as he eases in and takes his coat off, John is calling for a bottle of champagne, ‘oh, and a candle for the table please, Billy.’

Just the same. The same as always, with a candle. A candle on the table that’s ‘more romantic’, that’s ‘for you and your date’. This was a good decision after all.

The bottle is expensive, Sherlock knows, and he knows that a bottle is particular expensive given his lack of particular partiality to alcohol in general (the stag night being the most recent exception) and John’s preference for non-sparkling. Still, he raises a genuine silent toast easily, finding minimal discomfort now. Not here. Not back where it all began.

‘You know, I really do prefer red,’ John comments half heartedly, setting the thin flute down.

‘Why did you order this then?’

He shrugs, and his eyes are doing that soft thing again, where they dissolve and dilate out into the pools worthy of poets. ‘Because champagne’s for special occasions,’ he replies, as if charming words and adoring looks are the easiest thing in the world, as if they haven’t spent years dancing (or rather, not dancing) around each other. ‘And this is a special occasion.’

It is special, Sherlock realises now, finally, of course it is. Because it’s finally happening. It doesn’t matter that the setting is the same, because the difference in what’s allowed is so different, so special. It’s special because he’s been trying not to imagine this situation for years, and now it’s a reality. A reality that’s the best possible outcome of any predictions or ideas about the future. It’s a special occasion because the waiting and aching and wanting and dreading is over. It’s happening, and it’s allowed to. They’re allowed to sit closer than just friends do, to let their feet touch nervously under the table. John’s allowed to stare at him like this, relentlessly soft, without particular consequence, and he’s allowed to appreciate it, to stare right back. He’s allowed all of a sudden to feel his wonderful mess of feelings completely without guilt or repression.

It’s easy to say it now, in a familiar haunt. The situation - the warmth of the restaurant, the “atmospheric” romantic music they insist on playing, the full bottle of the most expensive wine Angelo bothers buying in, the candle light and it’s playful shadows, it’s Midas touch - all of it, permits him to say it. If not here, if not now, there’s no good time to say it. The words still feel unfamiliar in his mouth, and he guesses it’s a lack of practice, but it’s easy. ‘I love you,’ he says. 

And for a second everything seems right.

Only for a second, though. as per their usual, it’s not all right and perfect for long.

They’re interrupted by the arrival of their enthusiastic waiter - who’s probably worked out for himself that this is a special occasion, and is either genuinely sentimental, having served them for years as friends, or is simply using the occasion to capitalise on tips. He grins as he lays the plates down, and in an effort to be nice (since when did he make an effort to be nice?) Sherlock refrains from scowling at him. He’s reminded of his own admittedly limited experience posing in the service industry, and feels a fraction guilty about interrupting John and Mary’s moment now that he’s on the receiving end. Only a fraction guilty though. If he’d left them to it, walked back out, he’d never have ended up here. Billy leaves with another far too wide smile and a flourish after he’s been thanked, both genuinely and bitterly.

What follows though, once they’re alone again, in their untouched bubble of cliched happiness, is silence. Well, not silence - there’s cutlery clinking and tiny bubbles of alcohol fizzing up and the chatter of other diners - but a lack of conversation. Sherlock didn’t say it with the need to hear it back, he said it because it’s incredibly heavy for three little words and this seemed the time and place to stop them weighing down in the pit of his stomach, on the base of his neck, but still, now that his only response is silence he feels somewhat cheated. It doesn’t feel as special anymore, like the air between them is tarnished a bit, rusting. He waits for a moment, pretending that he’s not waiting, before the weight returns, dull and predictable and hated. Really, he should have seen this coming so he could have resigned himself to it. But of course it would happen this way. Of course the atmosphere, the ambiance and the complimentary hums have turned him into a naive child again, crowing in delight at getting what he wanted without stopping to remember that everything is flawed and that it’s safer not to get involved.

 

‘You’re not going to say it, are you?’ he asks, but it’s more of a check than a question; he doesn’t bother with an upwards inflection.

John looks up from his plate and frowns slightly. ‘Well, you don’t usually say it on the first date,’ he says, like he’s stating a piece of trivia, then catching Sherlock’s expression he nudges closer and adds more cheerily ‘that bloke over there with all the leather - mobster or escort?’

Sherlock’s not listening to him, ignores his question. He sets his fork down, having touched nothing, and tries not to gape. ‘We’ve known each other nearly five years.’ He points out. 

‘Well yeah,’ John allows, and he looks a little more concerned now. ‘But this is our first date. You just don’t really say it on the first date.’ He half laughs somewhat nervously, but it turns quickly to a panicked though possibly slightly amused one as Sherlock stands up. ‘Woah woah woah, where are you going?’

Sherlock doesn’t answer, heads for the door muttering ‘I knew this wouldn’t work…’ 

He would have made it too, and the night would have turned out truly differently, if John hadn’t widely grabbed at his arm and told him to wait. Several times. The awkward grip is strong enough that he can feel his skin raising underneath the cotton of his sleeve, turning a faded purple most likely. He stares at the point of contact miserably, but he doesn’t take another step towards the door.

‘Don’t…’ John says quietly, when all movement is halted, ‘don’t go…’ they’re both breathing far too heavily for moving the short distance between the booth and the door. Eventually John’s fingers relax a bit, but they don’t move - just stay resting lightly on Sherlock's arm. Sherlock looks back up at him, trying to get a read: comfort? Possessive instinct? Poised to grab again if needs be? Whatever the reason it’s just enough to stop him bolting out of the door into the much safer realms of not caring. John clears his throat, glances down, then up again, and starts slowly ‘You know I care about you…’ he pauses, briefly, but long enough for Sherlock to blink more times than the average human should blink in a pause, before adding ‘A lot. More than anything, really,’ here he shrugs and looks away in an attempt to seem more aloof, which is as endearing to Sherlock as it is irritating. Really they should be past this, but he doesn’t mind - it means it’s genuine, and that makes his whole vascular system want to sing. He knows John cares, of course he does, but hearing it in this context, in this way, is a different matter and he wishes he’s recorded it on his phone as well as in his memory. ‘But this is still a first date…’ John goes on, bringing him back from the quiet roaring inside. 'And I don't know how to do it otherwise. If I get caught up in the fact that it’s you, go too quick or something I’ll just ruin it... and I can't ruin it because... it's you. I can't risk it, not... not with you.' He shrugs, looks down at the floor, flits a nervous tongue across his lower lip. ‘Look, you said… that to me over a year ago, and, well I guess you must have thought it for a while before that -’

Yes, he must have done. He did.

 

People refer to love as a fall, and certainly Sherlock’s found that to be more accurate and less ridiculous than he once thought; it is like a fall, in that you teeter and dither and wobble on the edges, around the fringes of the real issue, of your true feelings, and then there's a sudden change, a pressure, a volta, followed inevitably and non negotiably by the realisation, the speeding, the crashing. It’s just as exhilarating and terrifying as a fall. In his particular situation, the metaphor applies even more. It applies shockingly well. Love certainly was a fall, a literal one, or rather, a literal fall was an act of love. But John’s right, he knew before, he must have done. Moriarty and his threats may have been the snapping cord, but it was flexing before then. He must have been shuffling around on the edge before then. Or why would he have panicked at Baskerville, sunk to the level of pedestrian compliments in his desperation? Why would the woman have thrown him off his game to such an extent, with her snide comments and all seeing eyes and with the four little words - 'look at us both' - that sent him practically racing away, reeling at the possible implications? Why would he have resented Sarah, Jeanette and all the others before he'd even acknowledged he did things like resent people with things he didn’t have so childishly? Why the pool?

The pool. That was the first time he'd really lost control, completely, and he's told himself it was the adrenaline of finally meeting his intellectual equal that had made his hands shake around the gun, that it was the eerie dancing blue light that made him reckless and the red dot playing on his forehead that made him give up that memory stick. It was the shock, and shock alone, of seeing John in a danger that he could have prevented that had rattled him. Now, with over a year of heavy hearted acceptance on his side, he can see the evening in a whole other light. It had physically hurt, that second when he'd thought he’d been wrong about John, that second he stepped out from behind the curtain. And it wasn’t even the “wrong” part that hurt. Then he'd understood fully and it'd hurt more. That was when he'd realised he cared. Then he'd thought it was all okay, and his voice had (he’d sworn) only the tiniest hint of embarrassing tremolo in its urgency as he's asked more than once 'are you alright? are you alright?', before even thinking about checking to see if the coast was clear. That was when he'd known he really cared. Then the game changed and a new threat reared it's ugly head and all he'd thought was 'at least we’re together now'.

At least we can die together.

One look. One nod. We can die together.

That must have been the moment. There can’t be another moment really, looking back. That was the moment he knew.

 

‘Since the pool.’ he says, not a hint of a tremor in his voice.

John blanches, his eyes blowing up to the size of their abandoned dinner plates. ‘Since the… Jesus…’ he hangs his head, laughs a nervous, disbelieving laugh. ‘See?' he says, 'you've had all this time, you’re five years up on me -’

Sherlock does see, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t think it’s ridiculous, and that doesn’t mean he doesn’t hate that idea to its very core. There's no way he can go another five years without reciprocation, no matter what he told himself before about not needing to hear it back. He tries to say ‘It doesn’t matter -’

‘It does.’ John insists. There’s a pause, and he sighs deeply. When he does go on his voice is more strained than before. It sounds almost like pleading. ‘You’ve had all this time, all the time you needed, you’ve got to let me catch up. I mean I was married not that long ago...' as he talks he finally moves his hand, but not away, just up and down on Sherlock’s arm, lightly, slowly, like he’s soothing a flighty animal. 'It’s not a power-trip or anything; it’s not that I don’t want this,' he says, and with every syllable he sounds quieter and gentler, each sound laced with more honest emotion, so that even when he says 'I do, I do...' any painful memories of the last time Sherlock heard him say that are pushed solidly away by the raw redolence of it all. 'I just…’ he trails off once again, scrabbling desperately for words. But words aren’t really needed this time. They’ve known each other long enough that, thankfully, sometimes the words are rendered pointless, or purely for other's benefit. This is, thankfully, one of those times. Sherlock understands where this conversation is headed, finally.

This - this dating thing - it’s sudden. It’s a shock to the system, after all this time skating and skimming the surface, and he understands now that he can't have been the only one slightly caught in the headlights in the face of it. Assuming John would manage, would thrive, in this new arrangement, was a stupid thing to do. And that's what he's trying and failing to voice. That this is in no way easy for him either. Maybe he's a better date, flirt, boyfriend (across three continents, if the blog is to be believed), but love, theirs' specifically, is a whole other playing field. And you can't play anything smoothly with two nervous novices; one totally lacking in experience, one relatively recently returned from an injury break, both high strung and repressive. There's so much between their levels of experience and acknowledgement of feelings, between their retrospective comfort zones. There's so much between ‘go out with me' and 'I love you'.

John finishes his sentence somewhat lamely: ‘I need some time, you know?’

The idea of more waiting really isn't a nice one. But it's fair. Damn if it isn't reasonable. And if anything's changed its that now they've got time. As much time as they want, as they need. Sherlock swallows. He doesn't like the idea of waiting, but he never did, and he's managed this long. It'll be a few months maximum, surely. He's waited this long already, and honestly this is the only thing he'd ever have waited for like this. Of course he can wait. Time is moving in their favour now. And it'll be worth it, all the more worth it - that's basic psychology. He nods.

It's worth it instantly - no need to worry about waiting for that - as relief floods over John's features, washing out all the tension, leaving only a genuine, eye crinkling smile in its wake. He lets go now, now the danger is seemingly past, and takes a step backwards towards their table. When Sherlock follows suit he smiles again, and his shoulders visibly loose their taut line as he slumps back into the booth. He stares a while, then refills both their glasses with a breath of thankful laughter. ‘Can't believe you were going to rush out and make me pay,' he says, with a valiant attempt at his previous bravado that's only slightly masks a small shudder in his voice. 

Sherlock wants to roll his eyes, but only manages to grin and shuffle his feet a little closer to the window seat. ‘You asked me here, aren't you expected to pay?’

‘Excuse you,' John returns, 'I have an infant daughter to feed.’

And then it's all okay again. They're laughing together and eating and drinking in the candlelight together like they should be, and there's ambient piano music and hearty meals and bubbles and easy playful talking. This is a date. They're on a date, together, without ulterior motives, and this really is the first step. Nerves seem to vapourise. It might not be perfect but it's pretty damn close.  
  
  


 

On the way back to pick up Rachel they stroll casually, not like the men on a mission they usually are, but a couple with nowhere better to be than in each others company. There's even more giggling now, all grabby hands and shaking chins after half a bottle of champagne each, and the stars - the ones that are visible through the cloud cover and light pollution - seem even brighter, even more beautiful. Halfway down the first street, a busy, well-lit central Soho street, John links their hands. Even though it's not the first time, and even though they're both wearing gloves, the contact makes Sherlock feel suddenly warmer. He looks down at their interlocking fingers and jigsawed palms, at the ridges and undulations that seem to mirror so well, to fit effortlessly, and his throat constricts with an almost audible gasp. For a hundred metres it feels monumental, and he can't stop stealing glances to check it's really happening. After two hundred metres it feels familiar, and after three it feels easy. By the time they reach their old front door it feels like home.

John lets them in quietly with the key he still hasn't got rid of and pulls off his gloves, but he doesn't immediately head towards the door to flat A. He stares around, rocks on his heels. He looks sappy, pliant, and his gaze on the chipped and scuffed up staircase is one of pining.

'I miss here...' he says quietly. 'I know Rachel needs a proper place, and I could live with you anywhere and it'd be home but... I do miss here.'

Sherlock tries very hard to ignore the compliment and focus on the building. The walls that wrap them up like a warm, familiar blanket. This hallway means a lot. They slept side by side on those stairs. He loves their not-housekeeper like a second mother. Yes, Rachel needs a “proper” place, and yes the house is theirs now and perfectly cosy and pleasant. But they're on the same page about the flat, he can tell watching John's eyes travel round the hall. 'Can we come back someday?’ he asks; then, realising how much younger and more fragile he sounded: ‘Will you come back with me?'

John grins at him, takes up his fingers lightly. 'Sounds like a plan.'

It really does, he realises, and his mind is off to the deeper of its deep secluded reservoirs. There's quite a few parts he doesn't visit often, or tries not to, and more than a few of those are John related, but there's only a very very few he's genuinely put under lock and key. He dives into one of those ones now (as John’s slowly sliding his glove down and tracing his wrist), pushing and kicking and pulling down. Down. There's a meadow at the bottom, a little red brick cottage. Daffodils, and grass peppered with white huts he recognises as the bee hives he placed there so carefully; a day running itself to exhaustion in eager circles.  He knows his place is here, beside that great knotted tree with the hive behind it. He knows John’s place is twenty feet away where the typewriter he rescued from a charity shop back room is waiting. He surfaces with an unconscious smile and takes in an easy breath before tentatively asking 'would you really live anywhere?'

'Probably,’ John says, ‘why?'

'Just wondering.' Sherlock smiles.  _ One day,  _ he thinks, tugging off his other glove. 

He catches sight of his watch; they should go and get Rachel. But he doesn't move, stays  almost huddled with John in in the narrowest part of hallway, just before the doormat ends and the carpet itself starts. John’s staring again, with that soft stare that would look dopey on anyone else. It's quiet, still, and the only light is a gentle yellow from Mrs Hudson's flat that falls in plough lines across the floor. They must be the only two people in the city, in the world. Just the two of us. The stare is long and lazy and eventually Sherlock has to drop it, to shuffle his feet and ask, part confused, part indignant, part shy, 'what?'

John shrugs, smirks, half drags his own shoe across the worn carpet. 'I was just thinking about all the times I nearly kissed you in this hallway.'

Sherlock really should do further study into pupil dilation; he wasn't sure his own could get much wider, darker, and yet he'd swear he just felt it. He should measure, see what the maximum really is. Surely John's simple sentence had every possible variables he'd ever get at once - surprise, disbelief, wander, attraction. He opens his mouth to say something with a tiny pop, but nothing quite comes out. It's embarrassing really, being actually, literally rendered speechless, and under cover of the half light he can feel the awkward mottled flush spreading over his chest and neck. He finds he doesn't mind so much, though. Not when John's grinning and grabbing at his lapels and pulling him down for the most relieving, aching kiss with a murmur of 'I've had enough nearlys...' 

Kissing like this, properly, after waiting all evening and what feels like half his life, kissing John Watson in the hallway that's still as much theirs as it was that first night, it's very difficult to mind about anything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (John and I will be hiding in the corner if you need anything..........)


	18. Look At Us Both

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> god sorry its been ages oops...
> 
> tw - scars and mentions of how they got them (but only whats in the show, less than in the show really) bc things are happening and this is the highest the ratings going...

They tumble through the front door, panting from the run. Home and dry though, the rain just missed them, its probably cursing now as it starts to lash against the windows in earnest. Not a storm, just London. Rachel's still asleep too, god knows how, so it's victory all round. It's days like this that the damp, musky, packed and panicked tube is a blessing. Oyster cards, only good thing having a mayor has ever done for us, John says.    


Now, he pulls it out of his pocket, along with his wallet, keys, surgery keycard, and hangs his only slightly moist coat up. 'That was lucky,' he says as the rain gets louder. He reaches unto the buggy to undo Rachel's straps, carefully carefully, if she wakes up now they won't get to sleep until much much later. John’s always joking that she looks best when she's sleeping, and Sherlock agrees that she's very easy to love when she looks so innocent and peaceful and quiet, but he thinks she's at her best crawling and toddling and tripping and running around the room, because her eyes light up as she laughs, and her eyes are amazing.   


She must be pretty wiped out, understandably, because she doesn't stir even as John lifts her up and her limbs flop about. She's still snoring gently as he carries her slowly up the stairs, and as he calls back to Sherlock that the dishwasher needs unloading. To give her credit, Oxford street in spring is never slow. He smiles as her now truly pearlescent blonde head disappears around the doorframe, and heads to the kitchen.   


Chores like the dishwasher are so mundane, and he never bothered before, but it's different now, because it's their dishwasher, in their house, with what's mistaken by everyone to be their child. He doesn't mind anymore. He stacks bowls, their clinking the only noise, left alone with his thoughts and the tune he's been composing in the back of his head all day. He's halfway through the exposition when two arms wrap around his waist from behind, making him jump.   


'Hiya,' John smiles as he turns around.   


'Hello.'   


'She's asleep.' He's told.   


'Miracle.' He answers, because it's true and because it'll win him another grin.   


It’s only a quick one though, because John is suddenly serious. 'Thanks for coming with me today,' he says, soft and genuine. 'I know shopping is a pain, but with birthdays coming up and everything -'   


'Not a problem,' Sherlock reassures him, reaching backwards to feel blindly for the cupboard handle that'll let him put the bowls away. It's no good, he has to turn slightly to reach. Who'd have ever pictured him here in a house clearing away china and doing small talk and "not a problem".   


When he turns back John is still looking at him, but it's not a look he's seen before up close like this, and it throws him off kilter slightly. It's like the look John gives Rachel, the pure wondrous adoration that'd melt anyone - that part, and he can still hardly believe it, he's seen before, seen cast in his direction by some miracle. But it's more than that, there's something deeper and darker too, a pure blackness of pupil, something beneath the surface. Sherlock tries to read it but he's never sure about these things: no one has ever looked at him like that before.   


'You're looking at me differently,' he accuses.   


John looks amused, 'well how do you want me to look?'   


'I don't know,' the detective replies, still hating those words, suddenly on the defensive. 'I just, don't know what you want.' He never really knows, not from looks like this one, and this is a new one so it’s fair enough not to get it first time, isn't it? Still infuriating.   


'Is it really that tricky?' John asks, smirking. He doesn't get the opportunity to be smug often but when he does he takes it and runs.   


Sherlock scowls.   


He expects an eye roll or a frown in response, and is as surprised as always when he gets a kiss instead.

How long has it been now? It must be over a month. Nearly two. It’s been forty-nine days and four and half ours actually. And he still reels like it’s the first time whenever their mouths connect.

This is different though, he realises soon enough. It's like the look, heavier and primal. Their feet shuffle closer, legs sliding, two match boxes rubbing together, side by side, without a match. It’s a deep kiss, all bass notes. The kitchen smells of body chemistry and he can hear his pulse in his ear. This is the first time they've kissed like this, like a prelude to something. It's too sure and too warm to not be headed further.   


For some reason that doesn't petrify him like it should.   


'Do.. you want to go upstairs?' John asks him, and he nods, so they do.   


 

John leads him upstairs like a valuable prize, starts opening his shirt like a fragile present, and, when he he first lets himself moan, shyly, barely audibly, pins him to the wall like a painting, like a masterpiece.

‘Can we have the lights on?’ a question, quiet, just below his earlobe, that only earns a hum as a response. ‘I’d like to be able to see…’ John goes on, and his voice is almost nervousness, with a swirling of syrup that makes Sherlock nod and fumble for the switch.    


With them room illuminated it occurs to him that he should maybe feel insecure and more awkward, since everything is visible, since the cover of sensual darkness is gone. For a second, as the bulb sparks into life, his stomach rocks slightly. Only for a second though, because the next John is smiling and kissing his neck and his stomach lurches for a whole other reason.    


He decides this is heaven, having a warm, caring mouth gentle on your neck. Neck kissing must be what the gods do, what the angels do, or what they would do if they were real. Except that ever barely touch feels as wrong as it does right, feels like breaking some awful code, law, taboo. Feels like sinning. Maybe this is what the falling angels do.    


When did he get so bloody poetic and spiritual? He doesnt believe in god, in angels, even falling ones. But beliefs would be easy to suspend, here and now. He’s dizzy, and his mouth is hanging slightly open. This could go on forever, be their whole evening and he really wouldn’t mind. 

Maybe he would. The coiled spring of warming energy in his abdomen that’s slinking its way downwards is telling him he’d mind...    
  
But with a muted sound the lips are withdrawn, slightly, enough that their presence is still felt, and dearly missed, and John asks him 'have you done this before?'    


In the humming silence he can hear the words clearly, but even clearer are the shapes of the words forming against his neck, making him arch despite their nerve inducing question. His next breath outward is a shuddering one, as he nods, slowly, honestly. Hoping its the right answer, or at least the answer that means more.   


It clearly was, he feels John’s tension dissolve instantly. The very air relaxes. Lips lower, then pause once more, even closer. John’s voice lowers too, even closer. 'With another bloke or...'   


Sherlock nods again, his hair rucking up at the back against the wall. His neck stretches upwards - he would never have guessed this would be his reaction, it never has been - all he wants right now is that mouth back where it was, where it should be. Blissfully, it returns. His stomach does yet another roll back, and he wonders if it’s mutual. He asks cautiously ‘Have you?’    


John pulls away from him fully now, so they’re face to face, and looks him full in the eye says he says 'No.' which is a shock, then, with one hand worrying the back of his neck, 'I mean yeah,' which is less of a shock, 'but... no.'   


Sherlock wants to tell him truthfully that it doesn’t matter, he just wanted to know either way. He just wanted some confirmation. He doesn't care either way, he doesn't. That’s what he tells himself anyway, but with John's kisses back on his jawline he finds he's not quite finished, and the second question garbles somehow out of his mouth, without his permission, with a sharp intake of air. 'Have you ever wanted to?'   


This time neither of them move. The stillness is perfectly pure for a moment, as if in a photograph or a memory. The pause sets him on edge, because he's not even sure he knows the answer he wants and waiting for it is a full three seconds of taught agony. Then the answer comes softly just under his chin and he can breathe a sigh of relief and pleasure: 'yes'.   


That’s the answer he wants, he decides. Yes is better, because if he's not the first person to make John want this then he’s not to blame for any crisis of identity it may cause. If he's not the first, he won't be resented, only wanted - and whilst that's not a sensation he’s overly familiar with, it sounds like one he might want to know better.   


He smiles, calmer than he ever would have predicted, and keeps smiling as he lets John cup his face and kiss him properly.   


 

Their kisses are long and languid, sweet, but tasting like salt – like popcorn, like sweat. Gentle but insistent. Tongues touch, gingerly at first, then openly and easily, giving and taking, swilling like a water. A balance, like they always are, like they always have been.   


He's not trying to make noise, but it's hard not to, the sounds leak past his lips like light through the gap in the curtains, like water when the tap is almost, almost off. They're embarrassing sounds really, tiny whimpers and sighs that make him flush hearing them. He knows full well he must sound ridiculous, that he must be blushing bright fire truck red, that his fumbling fingers and knocking knees must be a turn off if ever there was one, but he's past caring.   


He's five years past caring.   


All the while hands have been progressively making their way down from his face to his collar, and efficiently, though shakily, undoing his shirt buttons with tiny, satisfying pops. He rushes to help, and only really helps make the process messier by getting his fingers caught up in the process. At what feels like long last his shirt flutters to the floor with a whisper of cotton, and John pulls their lips apart, looks down, sighs against his skin. Palms rest gingerly, not moving. Skin on skin. John's skin, his skin. The callouses of doctor's fingers and soldier's palms pressing fully against his stomach.   


Between any two surfaces there is always space, always atoms – two things can never quite be touching. But they are, right now, and Sherlock would swear off all science and stake all he's ever had on that fact in one jumping heartbeat. He can feel it, every movement, every bone, every ridge, crevice, scrape. So close, so low. His throat hums with tension; it's overwhelming. His eyes flutter shut.   


John breathes into the quiet stillness, only reveling in the lack of space and material between them, but when Sherlock nods at him he starts to flex his fingers. They roam easily, slowly over the plains of Sherlock's chest, skirt over his ribs, smooth over the skin that's taught at his hipbones and poke just under his waistband. They're gentle, even reverential. They make his breathing as jagged as a mountain range.   
  
The fingers skim lower and then further back, snaking up and around his waist, holding him. It's comforting, and he feels like they're all that's stopping him sinking to the carpet and melting right into it, but then they brush over a ridge, and a divot, and a scrape - a scar. Oh. A scar. in the moment and in the heat he'd forgotten. Sherlock sucks in his breath despite knowing what will inevitably follow if he does. He doesn't often predict wrong - even in unfamiliar situations such as this.

 

He can practically see John frowning even with his eyes closed as the warm lips against his pull away slightly, forming the words 'you've hurt your back.'

He feigns ignorance, 'Hmm?'   


'Your back's all scratched up,' John continues, quiet concern, 'when did that happen?'   


'It’s nothing,' Sherlock interrupts him, too quickly.   


The hands are gone too now, and he opens his eyes in annoyance at his own stupidity. Only a moment ago he was in rapture, now he's on the brink of an argument - or worse, guilt. He knows the scars aren't attractive either, and the uncomfortable weight of before nestles again in his chest. It was all going so well...   


John's trying to meet his eyes, looking confused and suspicious, brows furrowed, pupils wide. When Sherlock doesn't raise his gaze fully, his shoulders droop, and his voice, though commanding, is low and full of pain. 'Turn around.' he says.   


It’s too late now to say anything, to convince him it’s nothing, but Sherlock doesn't turn right away. His mouth opens and closes, his eyes stare. His whole face pleads. It's as guilty an expression as any - which is stupid because technically he hasn't done anything. His silent appeal isn't effective. John's not having any of it, if anything he only looks more concerned as he grabs Sherlock's shoulders and forces him round to face the wall.   


He doesn't say anything, and Sherlock knows what's rendered him dumb. His back is a lattice of lines: thin, thicker, red, white, clustered together and separate, parallel and perpendicular. Some are still blotched, some still puckered. Even the healed scars are ugly, a faded white, with a sheen like a burn. For anyone it's hardly a work of art, for a doctor it's probably even worse. Sherlock braces himself for the reaction, lets his head hang.   


'Jesus,' John says finally, so softly it’s barely an exhalation, and Sherlock feels it more than hears it. Really feels it.    


He tries again to say it’s nothing. He doesn't get very far.   


'What..?' comes the next quiet question. Then: 'When...?' then, when he still doesn't answer: 'Sherlock? What did you do?'   


He breathes out, rests his slightly damp forehead (that was previously sweating for a different reason) against the cool wallpaper. Coming clean is supposed to feel better, isn't it, Better than lying? Why then does he still want to lie? Coming clean should feel like wiping the canvas - Sherlock suspects the conversation that's bound to follow will only throw more at it. 'I was in Serbia,' he answers.   


'Serbia?'   


'It was when I was,' he pauses, swallows, 'away.'   


'Oh.'   


The sound hangs for a second, and it hurts far too much for just an 'oh', for just a low, monotone mask of an 'oh'. John's hands drop from his shoulders and he turns. Face to face, when they've just been face to neck, face to back, he's suddenly hit with all the self consciousness he was surprised to avoid earlier, and partly wants to pick his shirt up off the floor. But he doesn't. He moves away from the wall that he was so enjoying being up against mere minutes ago and perches gingerly on the edge of the bed, feeling prickling regret and doubt.

Why can they never get things right?

After a second John joins him, and he takes a breath, quick enough and big enough to start an explanation.

'It was the last piece of the puzzle,' he says, careful to avoid the logical, scientific tone he used over a year ago trying to put a positive spin on this same story. 'Moriarty's last stronghold. I was undercover.'   


He stops there, but it’s enough. The gap between their thighs, side by side on the mattress, closes slightly, and John’s voice is deadpan as he realises: 'They found you.'   


'Yes.'   


'They did this?'   


'Yes.'   


A small glance sideways shows him shaking his head, hair brassy in the warm electric light. 'You should have seen a doctor,' he says, straight faced, and his fingers twitch on the sheets, most likely itching to reexamine the scars.   


Despite the situation, Sherlock finds himself smirking at the comment. 'I did.'   


His sarcasm earns him a frown and a head tilt.   


'I saw you,' he adds simply. 'I came straight back to London.'   


'Sorry, You were attacked in Serbia and, what, you got straight on a plane?'   


'More or less'   


John gapes at him, incredulous. When he challenges this his voice is half angry, but he seems to have found some hint of comedy in the ridiculousness of it all, at least for a moment, that gives Sherlock hope of this evening not all going to pieces. 'You mean you were covered in new and untreated wounds when you came back?' he shakes his head, looks like he wants to roll his eyes. He doesn’t though. His eyes stop halfway round, fixed on the wall ahead. They widen with a realisation, then plummet, then turn again, and Sherlock realises now the hope of salvaging this is shrinking as rapidly as John’s catching up. 'I hurt you,' John says in a hoarse whisper that allows only a glimpse into his repressed regret and guilt, 'you came back with all these cuts and I -'   


'It doesn't matter -' Sherlock tries.   


'It does...'   


'I deserved it.'   


A beat, a half shrug that looks forced. 'Still. If I'd known I wouldn't... well maybe I still would have but... You should've told me, I could have helped. Maybe stopped it scarring, a bit...'   


'It doesn't matter,' he insists. 'I don’t mind about that.' Another beat, a longer one, and in the quiet he feels the itch again to pick his shirt back up. The insecurity has hit him now, now that someone he cares about, who cares, by some miracle, about him, is going to see and have to face these scars. His body isn’t just something to be alluded to anymore. It’s still just transport, but it matters now. 'As long as you don't...' he adds tentatively.    


'’Course not,' John says, slightly shocked, mostly exasperated. He just looks for a second, then goes to his own shirt front, undoes the last few buttons. 'Be a bit hypocritical if i did...' he pulls the fabric down off his shoulder.    


His own scar is an almost equal bombshell, entirely for what it represents - the sheen and twisted sinews aren't enough to shock on their own.    


'I'm sorry I hurt you.' he says again after a moment.    


Sherlock shakes his head, speaks so quietly he barely hears it himself. 'I'm sorry I left.'   


John looks almost angry at his words, like he wants to wipe them off the map, out of their heads. He frowns, and for a second Sherlock worries he's ruined their moment for a second time, that they're going to fight. He hates fighting; he braces himself, bites gingerly at the innermost corner of his bottom lip. But they don't fight. 'You know you're forgiven, right?' John tells him, and he very nearly pulls the skin of his lip off. 'I meant it, I forgive you.' John sighs, not exasperated this time but pained. The sigh says "Christ why have we been dancing around like this for so long", says "believe me, believe me, i want to move on". He leans in and places the tiniest of kisses. 'I forgive you.' Another kiss. 'I forgive you.' Another. And then it’s all gone, all out. A barrage of waves of all emotions that have been kept at bay so long they're starting to spill out. They cling to each other like limpets to rocks, like rocks to cliff edges. No falling allowed. I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry.   


 

Apology lasts a while but not forever, it turns gradually to exploration. The fingers that ever so gently and guardedly skimmed the surface of Sherlock’s back and scars start to wander and to probe, always soft and always unhurried. They swill in easy circles, dip into every undulation, flit fleetingly, teasingly up his sides, skipping from rib to rib with a jolt of voltage at each touch, graze only slightly on his thighs, making his breath stutter. He answers in kind, though with less finesse, his technique reduced to touching wherever he can reach. It's been too long for prowess to play much part, they need it too much to care. Still if they're both breaking out in goosebumps and mottled flushes, and their worlds are lighting up like bonfire night in the heavens, elegance hardly matters.   


There's desperation in their movements, every one. The final tumble after years of steady, merciless erosion. They need this, like a fire needs oxygen, fuel, and heat. Heat there's no shortage of, the bedroom's warmer than it's ever been, so warm Sherlock's glad when layer after layer is discarded on the floor. Fuel's not a problem either, they've got five years of mounting tension behind them, they're at breaking point, at boiling point. No, it’s oxygen he's struggling with, he's never been so breathless in his life. Even in his dark secluded "no go zone" thoughts, it would only be the physical that made him stutter and gasp, but here and now it's the realisation that knocks the air out of him. It's all real, this is happening. The euphoria is nothing to the relief, the animal want nothing to the so desperately human need.   


Eyes meet with further kisses. John's are blown wide and panther black, and Sherlock suspects his are the same looking up from under his heavy, inky lashes. He goes to lean back, but his wrist is caught as it searches for a spot to support himself, and instead John pulls him gently forward so he ends up on top, sitting upright in a straddling position. He knows why: his way he’s got more control of the situation, and his back's exposed to the air rather than rubbing against the cotton. This way’s better for him, it’s a gift, and the rare cocktail of fond irritation, validation and squirming, embarrassed pleasures tingles on its way down, down. ‘Alright?’ John asks, like he always does, like it’s just another day, and in the pause that’s meant for his answer, Sherlock wishes he wasn't quite so breathless so he could dismiss the idiocy the question better than simply nodding can.  

‘You will tell me won’t you, if it’s not? If you want to stop?’   


_ I told you I love you didn’t I? I think telling you things should be easy now.  _   


He nods again, exasperated, and in an attempt to break out of current position of seeming like some anxious maid replies ‘likewise.’    


John grins at him, smirks even, and leans up to whisper hoarsely in his ear: ‘I’m not going to want to stop.'    


Fingers start carding through his curls, and the slightest tug makes the heat unbearable. His eyes close as a response, meaning he can't be certain that he hears what he thinks he does: a quiet, admiring 'beautiful...' He thinks he probably didn't, but the splotched flush across his cheeks and chest deepen, and he moans again - bashful and half caught in his mouth at first, then the lightest, airiest of kisses under his jaw bone is enough to turn it to a cry. And then the line, the bridge, the border is crossed.    


Hands keep roaming, with haste, with greed and worship, placing every ounce of the others body on the highest pedestals known, towering sequoias. Hands anywhere and everywhere, taking anything and everything. Breaths hiss as the final zips and buttons release and clothes are shoved hurriedly to the carpet. No more waiting. Here. Now. When he’d thought about it before, guiltily in the dead of night, then with nervous anticipation in most waking minutes, Sherlock had considered counting; counting minutes and breaths and kisses, wanting to remember, but numbers have no place here, and the touch, this touch, is wiping them totally, leaving blank bliss.   


He pushes his hips forward, still somewhat gingerly, and is met halfway as John pushes his up. There's an instant reaction - John sighs a scraping sort of sigh, and Sherlock barely catches a sob in his throat. He does it again. Oh, God, that's... He could do this all night, all year, forever, on and on and on until the end of the world. Again. No, he couldn't, not really. The weight and the beauteous pleasure of it all takes its toll, and much as he'd like them to, his trembling thighs won't let him last that long. He won't last that long.    


There's not a lot of talking now, now that they're too far gone. Just sighs and gasps and murmurs of names. Sherlock wonders at how his own sounds, how it can be so entirely different, issued from those awfully, sinfully familiar lips. Now, here, the "sh" is a whisper, barely more than a stammering, and the "k" pops like ripe fruit, spilling shocks every time, catching him out every time. 

It's a prayer, or a curse, whichever is worse. He finds he likes kissing the sound, catching it and blocking it with his own, letting it slip out or be swallowed down again. More than this though he wanders at John's ability to even form one coherent word. He's down to zero.   


Shoulders and stomachs and necks peppered with kisses and teasing hands that would make anyone fall apart. Hitching and panting and canting and sweating make the room smell like alkaline and sound like the pressure release it inevitably is. All the waiting culminating here, in bed, as it should be, as it is. It's worth it, every second, every molecule of John Watson is worth waiting for.   


 

It's far from an anti-climax, quite the opposite. All that pressure, all that heat ploughs and rocks through him, making him spiral like a washing machine, lost for a second as if knocked by a wave, then fall sideways with a rattle of springs and lie still. The fact that it really happened makes his eyes damp, though he'll pretend it’s sweat. Exhaustion wracks him, emotional, rather than raw physicality - although he is still shaking like an anxious colt, and his fringe is practically plastered to his forehead. All those feelings are a lot to process, and as John shifts to the side of him, and gives him the widest, purest, laziest smile he finds it even harder to blink without screwing up his eyes.

They sidle together, and clutch each other's hands like it's the first time. John kisses him again, light as a sponge, almost imaginary, and runs a thumb nail along his cheekbones, sweeping away the wet, not bothering with his own dampening lashes. Heart rates start to regulate, to come back in time, to slow, and they lie listening, sliding subtlety against each other. Chests rise and fall like empires, but they can't lie still forever.   


John rolls over first, heaves himself off the bed like he's climbing Everest and, catching Sherlock's crest fallen expression offers a hand. 'Come and clean up,' he says, and his voice is hoarse but untroubled, and his hand is warm and safe, so Sherlock does, and their ease together is now at an incomparable level to anyone on the outside.   


Afterwards they just lie there again, together, a mess of naked limbs all intertwined in secret under the sheets, just staring sleepily, smiles half buried in pillows. Their toes curl inwards and together, their fingers lazily skim over each other's arms, shoulders, chests, cheeks. It would be so easy now to say it, say "I love you", and Sherlock wants to, feels a need, but it was too wonderful to ruin with the pressure of "I love you"s. He settles on a 'thank you' that comes out quiet and low.    


John looks at him for a second, then shakes his head minutely into the pillow. 'If that means what I think it means, stop it,' he says, and even in this sleepy, endorphin riddled haze he sounds sterner than normal, 'I want you too, you know,' he shuffles closer, 'always’. He pushes Sherlock's fringe off his forehead and kisses it lightly before settling into a sleeping position that keeps them as close as possible, using chests as pillows and intertwined legs as radiators. Sherlock blames both the words and the fact that his tear ducts are itching again in response on oxytocin. He knows that it’s a lie. He finds he doesn't really care. He really doesn't care. 

He falls asleep with his face buried in John's shoulder. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ((this was the one i was most excited/nervous to upload so pls tell me what you think or whatever))


	19. Textbook

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this took way too long to upload but u known how school deadlines and creative insecurity can be

September is an odd month; it's in between, and London's clouds can never quite make up their minds. Mostly they just hang, omnipresent and melancholy, but occasionally they part to allow for the remnants of summer, letting the sun poke through blinds and jerk people awake. Waking up to sunshine, whether harsh or gentle, always makes for less stressful morning, makes the day easier to face.

September 4th is not one of those mornings. It drizzles, and Sherlock's woken brutally by the alarm to grey skies, grey droplets misting up the windows and a grey sort of feeling.

Next to him a hand slams the snooze buttons and its owner sighs dramatically over the miserably pattering rain. He smiles, still glad and blissfully lucky to have the sighs beside him when he wakes, making the morning a little less grey.

'Sleep well?' He asks, though he knows the answer.

'God no,' John answers groggily. He sighs again and rolls over to Sherlock's side.

Sherlock turns, looks him full the eye, morning eyes, softer and sleep crusted and slower to blink. They stare awhile, taking in each others early morning vulnerability, the gently sleepiness only partners get to see.

The alarm goes off again, and John shoots it his best glower, like he’s going to lob it across the room. He doesn’t lob it across the room. He rolls back, his T shirt riding up, and turns it completely off, before returning. He throws a warm arm over Sherlock’s waist and nuzzles closer.

'It's normal to not want her go isn't it?' he asks.

Sherlock links their fingers loosely, smiling, and pulls them in closer. 'Probably,’ he shrugs.

'We're not just awful parents who would rather doom their kid to a life of social failure than say goodbye to her?'

'Maybe.' he allows. Outside the drizzle turns momentarily into an uneven spattering that changes the timbre of the drops against the window from a quiet six beat to an erratic five. Not five - he can’t even count it. 'I didn't go to nursery,’ he adds.

'Well that settles it,' John smirks, shoving away the covers, 'she's definitely going, even if I have to shove her through the doors myself.'

Sherlock scowls at him, yanking the duvet back up to his chin. The hall light goes on, then the one in Rachel’s bedroom. He smiles to himself as he hears John telling Rachel ‘good morning’ and groaning overly-loudly as he lifts her out of her cot. Sherlock really won the jackpot with the two of them. His toes curl inward as he draws his legs up under the duvet. Just another minute before he joins them. He hears Rachel laughing and pushes himself out of the bed.

 

‘Sherlock, oh my God, how have we managed to lose only one welly?’

'It’s under the stairs.’

'It’s not.’

'It is I saw it.’

'It’s bloody not, I’m looking at an empty space right this exact second.’

It's their first go at the school run, so it’s excusable that it's hardly smooth. Rachel knocks over her cereal bowl and it takes at least ten minutes to persuade her she needs to wear a raincoat. Meanwhile a poorly timed call from the surgery, a misplacement of car keys, wellies and a lack of functional umbrellas holds them up even more. John groans at the prospect of traffic and Sherlock spends most of the morning attempting to be reassuring ('this is why we factored in extra time, we're not going to be late'), without much success. They practically fall through the school gates, panting. But it’s eight fifty-five. They’re still on time. Thank God. Two wellies, a brolly, keys and all.

 

Rachel's more excited now, jumping up and into puddles at the prospect of a new and special occasion. She yanks on John's cuff, pulling him enough off balance to tilt the still wet umbrella and send the drips down all of their necks. Rachel just laughs and her parents can only give each other sideways smiles.

When they near the door she almost takes off, and whilst it's comforting to know she's as up for adventure as her father, rather than the awkward child _he_ was, Sherlock doesn't really like watching her skip away from them so easily - it's hardly ego boosting.

'Woah there, Quicksilver,' John laughs, catching her round the waist. 'It's not a race.'

Rachel smiles sheepishly, and scuffs her wellies on the damp concrete when he puts her down. 'I like racing,' she says and John tells her:

'You sound like your dad.'

 

People are starting to gather, other parents and carers and relatives in clusters, all looking harried and rushed. One woman in particular looks frayed and exhausted as she hurries twins into the playground, calling after them to wait for her as they’re already sprinting away.

John nods in her direction, commenting flippantly that 'she definitely regrets not factoring in extra time,' and Sherlock doesn't correct him (the woman was clearly waiting on a lift from her partner who didn't show), knowing it’s the apology for the earlier snapping.

There's old parents, new parents and soon to be parents, all crowding around them now, bustling. Umbrellas form a sort of translucent kaleidoscope over them that’s diminishing as people start to shake theirs out. Sherlock notices easily the difference between those who keep their children close to them and quiet, and those who don't bat a lid whilst they run riot. He wonders what they think watching Rachel - who's straining to see her new playmates/social experiments, many of whom are peering curiously at her too, though about half remain firmly behind their parents' legs - holding hands with the only same-sex couple in the vicinity. Now’s not the time to worry about that. Never is the time to worry about that.

A woman comes out of the building in a fuchsia cardigan and a state of authoritative calm to ring a bell.  
Kids start to run and parents start to cry, as well as vice versa; a mixed bag that mirrors his own feelings. He follows John's example of crouching down on the tarmac to talk to Rachel.

'Have fun won't you, Bee,' John tells her, and it’s obvious to Sherlock that he's more nervous than he'd ever let on.

Perhaps Rachel can tell too, because she looks over her shoulder more uneasily and asks 'What time is home time?'

'Two o'clock,' Sherlock says, and shows her that it’s currently nine on his mobile as if to say "only five hours" (more for his benefit than hers). 'We'll be right out here, okay?'

She smiles toothily at that and nods. 'Okay.'

'I'm sure you'll have great fun,' John says, adjusting her coat, 'and make loads of friends.'

At this she frowns, looking just about as Sherlock as it’s possible for her to look sans any genetic input. 'How?'

Her parents smile.

'Just be yourself,’ John tells her.

'Just be nice,’ Sherlock tells her. 

They catch each other's eyes and laugh, which of course makes Rachel laugh too, her gorgeous, high, breathy giggle.

The bell rings again and the laughter stops. Her eyes blow wide and she grabs both of their coats to pull them together for a goodbye hug. Her still tiny fingers curl into Sherlock's collar and it's difficult not to lift her up and turn and run. Instead he runs his fingers through her straggly bob, catching knots: he should have brushed it more this morning.

'Bye bye,' she says quietly, and lets go. It's clearly a cue so Sherlock stands and pulls John with him, hating how final she makes it sound without realising. Only five hours. There's a lot they can do without her - they could have a nap, solve a crime, take advantage of the silent, empty house... Only five hours...

'See you later, alligator.'

'Bye, Rachel...’

She waves one last time, and then she's in the crowd and out of direct sight, laughing, smiling, already confidant enough to be instantaneously popular. John pushes out an uneasy breath and joins their hands, palms a little clammier than usual but moulding into their place with ease.

 

'You okay?' he asks, not turning his head. 

'Yes. Are you?'

'Yeah.'

There’s a silence, and they just stand in mutual comfort, watching Rachel and the other children push through the doors and out of their lives for the next five hours. Once the doors have swung finally shut most of the couples and single parents start to move. A few stand as they do, shifting closer, shoulder to shoulder, hand in hand, taking in the momentous quotidian occasion. There's bustle, talking again, comforting whispers, barks and snaps, mumbled questions and answers.

'There's so many,' John says, glancing over his shoulder.

Sherlock turns with him, and a shifting of hands allows them to do a one-eighty away from the building. Turning their backs on Rachel altogether feels big, but healthy. 'Children?'

'Other parents.'

'Oh.'

'It's weird,' he comments, watching them file out through the bright gates, 'thinking that they're here, in the same place as us, but I bet none of them have died for a few years, or had exes who've killed for money.'

He doesn’t sound cross and his fingers are still in Sherlock’s palm, so it’s fairly safe to assume the words aren’t a passive aggressive jibe, or self deprecating insecurity. It’s been a while. They can joke about these things now. Or rather one can joke about these things now; joking about inappropriate things is something they’ve been doing for a while.

'That’s not true,' Sherlock tells him, nodding in the direction of a man who’s heading out, as alone as he was earlier, hands in his pockets. He’s the only other man in the playground who isnt here with a woman, and, catching the nod he returns it with a courteous gesture of recognition. 'His wife's an assassin - that’s why she couldn’t make it.'

John smiles fondly despite himself, 'no she isn’t.'

'Alright, fine, she’s a traffic warden. Basically the same thing.'

'Just as bad.'

They look at each other then, for a second, smiling, and let their eyes, now full of unabashed adoration meet. Sherlock loves looking at him like this, loves that his eyes aren't pulled back down by guilty gravity anymore, and seeing it reflected back makes him feel as alive as any natural or chemical high.

As the playground empties John drags away and looks back at the gate, at the last few couples who are no doubt feeling worse about abandoning their child than the others. He heads towards it now and sets their walking, leisurely, a bit on the slow side so it’s almost swaying. Still close, knees brushing with the sweeping sounds of denim and cotton. 'Look,' he says, which means something serious is about to happen. Sherlock sets his eyes firmly on the gate. 'I know we, uh, took a different route to most of those people but -'

Their usual non-verbal pact is to try and make these sort of “look...” discussions easier, but Sherlock can’t help interjecting here with a snort. 'That’s one way of putting it.'

John ignores him, stubbornly goes on with his original train of thought. Very well thought out train of thought it sounds like from "look". A loaded freight train of thought on a well oiled track. 'But we ended up in the same place, relatively. They all care about each other -'

'They probably don’t all -'

'They do -'

'We can’t prove that -'

They stop walking and he gets an exasperated look. 'Sherlock.'

'Sorry.’ This is a serious conversation. He'll try harder. It’ll be easy and painless and then they can go home to their empty quiet house. Empty and quiet...

John gives him another warning look before setting off again. He starts off sounding irritable as he continues 'I just wanted to say,' but then there’s hesitation. A second. 'That I'm happy,' he says after it. 'Now. Right now.'

Sherlock gives his profile a bemused look. 'Without Rachel?'

'With you,' John clarifies, and his eyes go to the wall, the ground and his feet before they come back up. They come back up to fully meet Sherlock's again as he finishes. 'Because I love you.'

Sherlock stops walking. John’s hand slips out of his with a jerk that makes him a little unsteady on his feet. A little - that’s nothing to the words. There’s a demolition squad in his head. Or rather some kind of rapidly diffusing chemical weapon, a silent killer. Or Nothing. Nothing now except those words. Those words that are featherlight tsunamis. They can’t be real. It’s been so long he must have forgotten they’re overdue, made some mistake. They're the almost practically perfect partnership and yet this announcement feels like someone's pulled a lever, flipped a switch. Or maybe just switched them up a gear. The engine rasps in protest.

So does his voice. 'You what?' It’s the only noise in the deserted playground. His shoe scrapes as he shuffles slightly. That’s another.

'I love you.' There it is again. He’s said it again God surely it’s real if he said it again - 'I’m sorry it took me so long’ _I don’t care anymore I’ll never care anymore_ 'but it mean it' _I take it back I care. You mean it. I care._ 'I love you, I do -' there it is again. Again. All he can think is again again again.

This is it. This is the moment.

This is what dawn feels like.

Soft but vibrant orange. Gentle but a routine shock. Waking up, however groggily, slowly, brain fuzzed as his is now. 

But through the quagmire and the haze of protests and questions he sees the valiant white flag, fluttering, cutting the horizon line, proclaiming: this is the moment.

Every weight, every ounce, every little mass that’s hung off his fingers and toes and earlobes for all of this is gone, really this time, forever this time. This is it. John loves him. And that’s the moment because everything has led here. And that’s not some ridiculous notion of fate, that’s Sherlock’s own heinously romantic science. Every breath he’s holding is John, every blink, every second guess. Everything, as hyperbolic and stupid as that sounds. He’d try and turn the tide if John asked him to. He’d carry the weight of a thousand more secrets. John is bloody everything, and here he is standing here saying it. Saying he loves Sherlock Holmes. This is the moment and God Sherlock doesn’t believe in karma but he must have done something to deserve this and it must have been miraculous. What can he ever have done to deserve this?

To deserve the sun coming up after all this darkened stumbling?

He doesn’t even feel the heat prickling in the corners of his eyes, or the coolness of the water against his skin as it comes into contact with the September chill, or even his own exaggerated blinking against it until John’s talking again. Panicking it sounds like - his fingers curling in and out of his palm as he hurriedly closes any hint of gap between them.

'Oh God,’ he’s saying, ‘are you crying? Don’t cry, please don’t -'

'I’m not crying.'

He smiles, softly, and the whites of his own eyes are looking slightly pink. 'You are,' he says, voice even softer than his loving (because that’s a word that’s accurate now - loving) looks.

Sherlock doesn’t deny it twice. It doesn't matter anyway now, does it? Does anything? He knows he’s being dramatic, but he has been since the start, and he can’t think of a better subject to effuse about. John loves him. When else is he going to need to save tears like these for now? What else is there that matters to make a song and dance about? Oh, maybe they'll get to dance now... 'Well,' he says, attempting a mock-scowl and not even half managing to force the beam off his face, 'you’re crying too.'

'I’m not,' John tells him without any firmness. He’s always been a terrible outright liar. He shuffles even closer and the toes of their shoes bump.

'You are.'

'Yeah, well,' he says, 'we can’t both cry.'

Red-rimmed eyes hold a connection that’s all encompassing. More smiles begin, and as the laugh lines form more clearly ariund John's eyes he tugs at Sherlock’s cuff, buries his hand gently into the newest scarf, comes closer. And then they’re kissing. Kissing the gentlest, weakest, tiniest kisses. The salt in the few tears that are actually rolling then settling on their cheeks makes for friction - the only harsh contrast that’s provided in this effortless wash of watercolour tenderness. It’s relief, really, purely. For once there’s no “I’m glad no one saw”, no “there’s something I've always wanted to say”. They’ve just said it. Albeit some time apart, but there’s been two "I love you"s and the relief, the relief... The relief is life, liberty, and the pursuit of each other’s trembling smiles. There’s no one to see, and neither of them are in the place of caring. They’re moulded together from toe to forehead with a peppering of chapped and salty kisses. It’s going to rain again in a minute probably. He’s going to need to pause for breath in a minute. It’s okay. John loves him. It’s okay.

Sherlock wasn’t a miserable child, and despite everything he doesn’t think he quite deserves the title of miserable adult. But here, here he’s got to be the most relieved, the most content he’s ever been. With Rachel less than a hundred metres away and well, and an empty open space that’s all their own under the grey sky. Safe, wanted, loved, here with John on the playground tarmac.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So that's it :) yes it might have been a ridiculously long time and bit unrealistic but I really wanted it to be her first day so 
> 
> thank you all so much for reading, this has been quite a while in the making and I really appreciate knowing some people liked it x pls tell me what u thought (even if this has been complete for like a year lol really idm) or talk to me on tumblr  
> thanks guys :)

**Author's Note:**

> follow me on [tumblr](http://whatdoyoumeanionlygetoneotp.tumblr.com/)
> 
> there's a playlist for this fic on [8tracks](https://8tracks.com/lizardhugs/tarmac)
> 
> :)


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